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y  errata 
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5 

6 

AN  ADVENTURER  OF  THE 
NORTH 


t. 


WORKS  JJY  GILBERT  PARKER 

PUBLISHED   BY 

STONE  &  KIMBALL 


PIERRE    AND    HIS    PEOPLE,   l6mO.,  $1.25 

A  lover's  diary,  i6mo.,  $1.25 

WHEN    VALMOND    CAME    TO    PONTIAC,   l6mO.,  $1.50 
AN    ADVENTURER    OF    THE    NORTH,    l6mO.,  $1.25 


An  Adventurer  of  the 
North 


BEING  A  CONTINUATION  OF  THE  HISTORIES  OF 

"PIERRE    AND    KIS    PEOPLE,"   AND  THE 

LATEST  EXISTING  RECORDS  OF 

PRETTY  PIERRE 


BY 

GILBERT  PARKER 


¥ 


NEW    YORK 
STONF;    ^5-    KIMBALL 

MDCCCXCVI 


I 


AS'; A  /V 


166929 


i 


(  Oi'YUIGHT.    l8g5,    nv 
STONK  AND  KlMHAl.I. 


TO  SIR  WILLIAM  C.  VAN  HORNE. 

Dear  Sir   William: 

To  the  public  it  will  seem  fitting  that  these 
tales  should  be  inscribed  to  one  whose  notable  career 
is  closely  associated  with  the  life  and  development 
of  the  Far  North. 

But  there  are  other  and  more  personal  reasons  for 
this  dedication;  for  some  of  the  stories  were  begotten 
in  midnight  gossip  by  your  fireside:  furthermore,  it 
gives  my  little  book  a  sort  of  distinction  to  have  on 
its  fore-page  the  name  of  so  well-known  a  connoisseur 
in  art  and  lover  of  literature. 
Believe  me,   dear  Sir  William, 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

GILBERT  PARKER. 

7  PARK  PLACE, 
ST.  JAMES'S   S.   W. 
THE  AUTUMN,  1895. 


«^3^WM 


1 
1 

T 


Contents 


ACROSS   THE   JUMPING   SANDHILLS 
A    LOVELY    HULLV 
THE    FILIBUSTER 

THE   GIFT  OF   THE    SIMPLE    KING 
MALACHI 

THE    LAKE   OF    THE   GREAT   SLAVE 

THE    RED   PATROL 

THE   GOING  OF    THE    WHITE    SWAN 

AT   BAMBER'S    BOOM 
THE   BRIDGE   HOUSE 
THE   EPAULETTES 
THE    FINDING  OF    FINGALL 


I' AGS 
I 

'5 
38 
61 

87 

99 
120 

162 

174 
196 
207 


# 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


Across  the  Jumping  Sandhills 

I 

"  Here  now,  Trader  ;  aisy,  aisy!  Quicksands 
I  'vc  seen  along  the  sayshorc,  and  up  to  me  half- 
ways  I  've  been  in  wan,  wid  a  doublc-an'-twist 
in  the  rope  to  pull  me  out ;  but  a  suckin'  sand 
in  the  open  plain — aw,  Trader,  aw!  the  like  o' 
that  niver  a  bit  saw  I." 

So  said  Macavoy  the  giant,  when  the  thing 
was  talked  of  in  his  presence. 

"Well,  I  tell  you  it's  true,  and  they're  not 
three  miles  from  Fort  O'Glory.  The  Com- 
pany's* men  do  n't  talk  about  it — what 's  the 
use  ?  Travellers  are  few  that  way,  and  you  can  *t 
get  the  Indians  within  miles  of  them.  Pretty 
Pierre  knows  all  about  them,  better  than  anyone 
else  almost.  He'll  stand  by  me  in  it  —  eh, 
Pierre?" 

•The  Hudson's  Bay  Company. 


'y    t' ; 


Il       > 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


'( 

^ 


Pierre,  the  half-breed  gambler  and  adven- 
turer, took  no  notice,  and  was  silent  for  a  time, 
intent  on  his  cigarette;  and  in  the  pause  Mow- 
ley  the  trapper  said;  "Pierre's  gone  back  on 
you,  Trader.  P'r'aps  ye  have  n't  paid  him  for 
the  last  lie.  I  go  one  better,  you  stand  by  me — 
my  treat — that 's  the  game  !" 

"Aw,  the  like  o'  that,"  added  Macavoy  re- 
proachfully. "Aw,  yer  tongue  to  the  roof  o'  yer 
mouth,  Mowley.  Liars  all  men  may  be,  but 
that 's  wid  wimmin  or  landlords.  But,  Pierre — 
aff  another  man's  bat  like  that — aw,  Mowley,  fill 
yer  mouth  wid  the  bowl  o*  yer  pipe !" 

Pierre  now  looked  up  at  the  three  men,  roll- 
ing another  cigarette  as  he  did  so ;  but  he  seemed 
to  be  thinking  of  a  distant  matter.  Meeting  the 
three  pairs  of  eyes  fixed  on  him,  his  own  held 
them  for  a  moment  musingly;  then  he  lit  his 
cigarette,  and,  half-reclining  on  the  bench  where 
he  sat,  he  began  to  speak,  talking  into  the  fire, 
as  it  were. 

"I  was  at  Guidon  Hill,  at  the  Company's 
post  there.  It  was  the  fall  of  the  year,  when  you 
feel  that  there  is  nothing  so  good  as  life,  and  the 
air  drinks  like  wine.  You  think  that  sounds  like 
a  woman  or  a  priest  ?  Mais,  no.  The  seasons 
are  strange.  In  the  spring  I  am  lazy  and  sad ; 
in  the  fall  I  am  gay,  I  am  for  the  big  things  to 


Hf 


Across  the  Jumping  Sandhills 


3 


f:a( 


igsto 


do.  This  matter  was  in  the  fall.  I  felt  that  I 
must  move.  Yet,  what  to  do  ?  There  was  the 
thing.  Cards,  of  course.  But  that 's  only  for 
times,  not  for  all  seasons.  So  I  was  like  a  wild 
dog  on  a  chain.  I  had  a  good  horse — Tophet, 
black  as  a  coal,  all  raw  bones  and  joint,  and  a 
reach  like  a  moose.  His  legs  worked  like  pis- 
ton-rods. But,  as  I  said,  I  did  not  know  where 
to  go  or  what  to  do.  So  we  used  to  sit  at  the 
Post  loafing  :  in  the  daytime  Avatching  the  empty 
plains  all  panting  for  travellers,  like  a  young 
bride  waiting  her  husband  for  the  first  time." 

Macavoy  regarded  Pierre  with  delight.  He 
had  an  unctuous  spirit,  and  his  heart  was  soft  for 
women — so  soft  that  he  never  had  had  one  on  his 
conscience,  though  he  had  brushed  gay  smiles 
off  the  lips  of  many.  But  that  was  an  amiable 
weakness  in  a  strong  man.  "Aw,  Pierre,"  he 
said  coaxingly,  "kape  it  down;  aisy,  aisy!  me 
heart 's  goin'  like  a  trip-hammer  at  thought  av 
it;  aw  yis,  yis,  Pierre!" 

"Well,  it  was  like  that  to  me — all  sun  and  a 
sweet  sting  in  the  air.  At  night  to  sit  and  tell 
tales  and  such  things ;  and  perhaps  a  little  brown 
brandy,  a  look  at  the  stars,  a  half-hour  with  the 
cattle — the  same  old  game.  Of  course,  there 
was  the  wife  of  Hilton  the  factor — fine,  always 
fine  to  see,  but  deaf  and  dumb.     We  were  good 


.«'! 


,'i 


.V 


4) 


4  An  Adventurer  of  the  North 

friends,  Ida  and  me.  I  had  a  hand  in  her  wed- 
ding. Holy,  I  knew  her  when  she  was  a  little 
girl.  We  could  talk  together  by  signs.  She  was 
a  good  woman ;  she  had  never  guessed  at  evil. 
She  was  quick,  too,  like  a  flash,  to  read  and 
understand  without  words.  A  face  was  a  book 
to  her. 

^^Eh  Men.  One  afternoon  we  were  all  stand- 
ing outside  the  Post,  when  we  saw  someone  ride 
over  the  Long  Divide.  It  was  good  for  the  eyes. 
I  cannot  tell  quite  how,  but  horse  and  rider  were 
so  sharp  and  clear-cut  against  the  sky,  that  they 
looked  very  large  and  peculiar — there  was  some- 
thing in  the  air  to  magnify.  They  stopped  for 
a  minute  on  the  top  of  the  Divide,  and  it  seemed 
like  a  messenger  out  of  the  strange  country  at 
the  farthest  north — the  place  of  legends.  But, 
of  course,  it  was  only  a  traveller  like  ourselves, 
for  in  a  half-hour  she  was  with  us. 

"Yes,  it  was  a  girl  dressed  as  a  man.  She 
did  not  try  to  hide  it ;  she  dressed  so  for  ease. 
She  would  make  a  man's  heart  leap  in  his  mouth 
— if  he  was  like  Macavoy,  or  the  pious  Mowley 
there." 

Pierre's  last  three  words  had  a  touch  of  irony, 
for  he  knew  that  the  Trapper  had  a  precious 
tongue  for  Scripture  when  a  missionary  passed 
that  way,  and  a  bad  name  with  women  to  give  it 


I 


Across  the  Jumping  Sandhills 


5 


point.  Mowlcy  smiled  sourly;  but  Macavoy 
laughed  outright,  and  smacked  his  lips  on  his 
pipe-stem  luxuriously. 

"Aw  now,  Pierre — all  me  little  failin's — aw ! " 
he  protested. 

Pierre  swung  round  on  the  bench,  leaning 
upon  the  other  elbow,  and,  cherishing  his  cigar- 
ette, presently  continued : 

"  She  had  come  far  and  was  tired  to  death, 
so  stiff  that  she  could  hardly  get  from  the  saddle; 
and  the  horse,  too,  was  ready  to  drop.  Hand- 
some enough  she  looked,  for  all  that,  in  man's 
clothes  and  a  peaked  cap,  with  a  pistol  in  her 
belt.  She  was  n't  big  built — maisj  a  feathery 
kind  of  sapling — but  she  was  set  fair  on  her  legs 
like  a  man,  and  a  hand  that  was  as  good  as  I 
have  seen,  so  strong,  and  like  silk  and  iron  with 
a  horse.  Well,  what  was  the  trouble? — for  I  saw 
there  was  trouble.  Her  eyes  had  a  hunted  look, 
and  her  nose  breathed  like  a  deer's  in  the  chase. 
All  at  once,  when  she  saw  Hilton's  wife,  a  cry 
come  from  her  and  she  reached  out  her  hands. 
What  would  women  of  that  sort  do?  They  were 
both  of  a  kind.  They  got  into  each  other's 
arms.  After  that  there  was  nothing  for  us  men 
but  to  wait.  All  women  are  the  same,  and  Hil- 
ton's wife  was  like  the  rest.  She  must  get  the 
secret  first;  then  the  men  should  know. 


msm 


T 


f: 


6  An  Adventurer  of  the  North 

"  We  had  to  wait  an  hour.  Then  Hilton's 
wife  beclconed  to  us.  We  went  inside.  The 
girl  was  asleep.  There  was  something  in  the 
touch  of  Hilton's  wife  like  sleep  itself — like 
music.  It  was  her  voice — that  touch.  She  could 
not  speak  with  her  tongue,  but  her  hands  and 
face  were  words  and  music.  Bien,  there  was  the 
girl  asleep,  all  clear  of  dust  and  stain:  and  that 
fine  hand  it  lay  loose  on  her  breast,  so  quiet,  so 
quiet.  Efifin,  the  real  story — for  how  she  slept 
there  does  not  matter — but  it  was  good  to  see 
when  we  knew  the  story." 

The  Trapper  was  laughing  to  himself  to 
hear  Pierre  in  tiiis  romantic  mood.  A  woman's 
hand — it  was  the  game  for  a  boy,  not  an  adven- 
turer ;  for  the  Trapper's  only  creed  was,  that 
women,  like  deer,  were  spoils  for  the  hunter. 
Pierre's  keen  eye  noted  this,  but  he  was  above 
petty  anger.     He  merely  said: 

*'  If  a  man  have  an  eye  to  see  behind  the 
face,  he  understands  the  laugh  of  a  fool,  or 
the  hand  of  a  good  woman,  and  that  is  much. 
Hilton's  wife  told  us  all.  She  had  rode  two 
hundred  miles  from  the  south-west,  and  was 
making  for  Fort  Micah,  sixty  miles  farther  north. 
For  what?  She  had  loved  a  man  against  the 
will  of  her  people.  There  had  been  a  feud,  and 
Garrison — that  was  the  lover's  name — was  the 


Across  the  Jumping  Sandhills 


to 


the 
,  or 
ucli. 
I  two 

was 
kth. 

the 

land 

the 


last  on  his  own  side.  There  was  trouble  at  a 
Company's  post,  and  Garrison  shot  a  half-breed. 
Men  say  he  was  right  to  shoot  him,  for  a  wo- 
man's name  must  be  safe  up  here.  Besides,  the 
half-breed  drew  first!  Well,  Garrison  was  tried, 
and  must  go  to  jail  for  a  year.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  he  would  be  free.  The  girl  Janie 
knew  the  day.  Word  had  come  to  her.  She 
made  everything  ready.  She  knew  her  brothers 
were  watching — her  three  brothers  and  two  other 
men  who  had  tried  to  get  her  love.  She  knew 
also  that  they  five  would  carry  on  the  feud 
against  the  one  man.  So  one  night  she  took 
the  best  horse  on  the  ranch  and  started  away 
toward  Fort  Micah.  Alors,  you  know  how  she 
got  to  Guidon  Hill  after  two  days*  hard  riding 
— enough  to  kill  a  man,  and  over  fifty  yet  to  do. 
She  was  sure  her  brothers  were  on  her  track. 
But  if  she  could  get  to  Fort  Micah,  and  be  mar- 
ried to  Garrison  before  they  came,  she  wanted 
no  more. 

"  There  were  only  two  horses  of  use  at  Hil- 
ton's post  then;  all  the  rest  were  away,  or  not  fit 
for  hard  travel.  There  was  my  Tophet,  and  a 
lean  chestnut,  with  a  long  propelling  gait,  and 
not  an  ounce  of  loose  skin  on  him.  There  was 
but  one  way:  the  girl  must  get  there.  Allans, 
what  is  the  good!      What   is  life  without  these 


'! 


8 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


things!  The  girl  loves  the  man  :  she  must  have 
him  in  spite  of  all.  There  was  only  Hilton  and 
his  wife  and  me  at  the  Post,  and  Hilton  was  lame 
from  a  fall  and  one  arm  in  a  sling.  If  the 
brothers  followed,  well,  Hilton  could  not  inter- 
fere— he  was  a  Company's  man  ;  but  for  myself, 
as  1  said,  I  was  hungry  for  adventure,  I  had  an 
ache  in  my  blood  for  something.  I  was  tingling 
to  the  toes,  my  heart  was  thumping  in  my  throat. 
All  the  cords  of  my  legs  were  straightening  like 
I  was  in  the  saddle. 

**  She  slept  for  three  hours.  I  got  the  two 
horses  saddled.  Who  could  tell  but  she  might 
need  help?  I  had  nothing  to  do  ;  I  knew  the 
shortest  way  to  Fort  Micah  every  foot — and 
then  it  is  good  to  be  ready  for  all  things.  I  told 
Hilton's  wife  what  I  had  done.  She  was  glad. 
She  made  a  sign  at  me  as  to  a  brother;  and  then 
began  to  put  things  in  a  bag  for  us  to  carry. 
She  had  settled  all  how  it  was  to  be.  She  had 
told  the  girl.  You  see,  a  man  may  be — what  is 
it  they  call  me? — a  plunderer,  and  yet  a  woman 
will  trust  him,  comma  (u/^' 

"  Aw  yis,  aw  yis,  Pierre  ;  but  she  knew  yer 
hand  and  yer  tongue  niver  wint  agin  a  woman, 
Pierre.  Naw,  niver  a  wan.  Aw,  swate,  swate, 
she  was,  wid  a  heart — a  heart,  Hilton's  wife,  aw 
yis!" 


1 


M 


■er 

in, 
[tc, 
law 


Across  the  Jumping  Sandhills  g 

Pierre  waved  Macavov  into  silence.  "  The 
girl  waked  with  a  start  after  three  hours.  Her 
hand  caught  at  her  heart.  *  Oh,'  she  said,  still 
staring  at  us,  *  I  thought  that  they  had  come!' 
A  little  after  she  and  Hilton's  wife  went  to 
another  room.  All  at  once  there  was  a  sound  of 
horses  outside,  and  then  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  four  men  come  in.  They  were  the  girl's 
hunters. 

"  It  was  hard  to  tell  what  to  do  all  in  a  min- 
ute; but  I  saw  at  once  the  best  thing  was  to  act 
for  all,  and  to  get  the  men  inside  the  house.  So 
I  whispered  to  Hilton,  and  then  pretended  that 
I  was  a  great  man  in  the  Company.  I  ordered 
Hilton  to  have  the  horses  cared  for,  and,  not 
giving  the  men  time  to  speak,  I  fetched  out  the 
old  brown  brandy,  wondering  all  the  time  what 
could  be  done.  There  was  no  sound  from  the 
other  room,  though  I  thought  I  heard  a  door 
open  once.  Hilton  played  the  game  well,  and 
showed  nothing  when  I  ordered  him  about,  and 
agreed  word  for  word  with  me  when  I  said  no 
girl  had  come,  laughing  when  they  told  why 
they  were  after  her.  More  than  one  of  them  did 
not  believe  at  first;  but,  pshaw,  what  have  1  been 
doing  all  my  life  to  let  such  fellows  doubt  me  ! 
So  the  end  of  it  was  that  I  got  them  all  inside 
the  house.      There  was  one  bad    thing — their 


10 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


horses  were  all  fresh,  as  Hilton  whispered  to  me. 
They  had  only  rode  them  a  few  miles — they  had 
stole  or  bought  them  at  the  first  ranch  to  the 
west  of  the  Post.  I  could  not  make  up  my 
mind  what  to  do.  But  it  was  clear  I  must  keep 
them  quiet  till  something  shaped. 

"They  were  all  drinking  brandy  when  Hil- 
ton's wife  come  into  the  room.  Her  face,  mon 
Dicu!  it  was  so  innocent,  so  childlike.  She  stared 
at  the  men ;  and  then  I  told  them  she  was  deaf 
and  dumb,  and  I  told  her  why  they  had  come. 
Voiliiy  it  was  beautiful  —  like  nothing  you  ever 
saw.  She  shook  her  head  so  simple,  and  then 
told  them  like  a  child  that  they  were  wicked  to 
chase  a  girl.  I  could  have  kissed  her  feet. 
Thunder,  how  she  fooled  them !  She  said, 
would  they  not  search  the  house  ?  She  said  all 
through  me,  on  her  fingers  and  by  signs.  And 
I  told  them  at  once.  But  she  told  me  some- 
thing else — that  the  girl  had  slipped  out  as  the 
last  man  came  in,  had  mounted  the  chestnut, 
and  would  wait  for  me  by  the  iron  spring,  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  away.  There  was  the  danger  that 
some  one  of  the  men  knew  the  finger  talk,  so  she 
told  me  this  in  signs  mixed  up  with  other  sen- 
tences. 

"  Good!  There  was  now  but  one  thing — for 
me  to  get  away.     So  I  said,  laughing,  to  one  of 


1 


i 


Across  the  Jumping  Sandhills 


II 


that 
she 
5en- 


thc  men,  •Come,  and  we  will  look  after  the 
horses,  and  the  others  can  search  tiie  place  with 
Hilton.'  So  we  went  out  to  where  the  horses 
were  tied  to  the  railing,  and  led  them  away  to 
the  corral. 

"Of  course  you  will  understand  how  I  did  it. 
I  clapped  a  hand  on  his  mouth,  put  a  pistol  at 
his  head,  and  gagged  and  tied  him.  Then  I  got 
my  Tophet,  and  away  I  went  to  the  spring.  The 
girl  was  waiting.  There  were  few  words.  I 
gripped  her  hand,  gave  her  another  pistol,  and 
then  we  got  away  on  a  fine  moonlit  trail.  We 
had  not  gone  a  mile  when  I  heard  a  faint  yell 
far  behind.  My  game  had  been  found  out. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  ride  for  it  now, 
and  maybe  to  fight.  But  fighting  was  not  good ; 
for  I  might  be  killed,  and  then  the  girl  would  be 
caught  just  the  same.  We  rode  on — such  a  ride, 
the  horses  neck  and  neck,  their  hoofs  pounding 
the  prairie  like  drills,  rawbone  to  rawbone,  a 
hell-to-s])lit  gait.  I  knew  they  were  after  us, 
though  I  saw  them  but  once  on  the  crest  of  a 
Divide  about  three  miles  behind.  Hour  after 
hour  like  that,  with  ten  minutes'  rest  now  and 
then  at  a  spring  or  to  stretch  our  legs.  We 
hardly  spoke  to  each  other  ;  but,  God  of  love ! 
my  heart  was  warm  to  this  girl  who  had  rode  a 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  in  twenty-four  hours. 


^H 


4 


13 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


I 


Just  before  dawn,  when  I  was  beginning  to  think 
that  we  would  easy  win  the  race  if  the  ^'irl  ccnild 
but  hold  out,  if  it  did  not  kill  her,  the  chestnut 
struck  a  leg  into  the  crack  of  the  prairie,  and 
horse  and  girl  spilt  on  the  ground  together.  She 
could  hardly  move,  she  was  so  weak,  and  her 
face  was  like  death.  I  put  a  pistol  to  the  chest- 
nut's head,  and  ended  it.  The  girl  stoo[)ed  and 
kissed  the  poor  beast's  neck,  but  spoke  nothing. 
As  I  helped  her  on  my  Tophct  I  put  my  lips  to 
the  sleeve  of  her  dress.  Mother  of  Heaven  1 
what  could  a  man  do  ?  she  was  so  dam*  brave ! 

"  Dawn  was  just  breaking  oozy  and  grey  at 
the  swell  of  the  prairie  over  the  Jumping  Sand- 
hills. They  lay  quiet  and  shining  in  the  green- 
brown  plain;  but  I  knew  that  there  was  a  churn 
beneath  which  could  set  those  swells  of  sand  in 
motion,  and  make  Glory-to-God  of  an  army. 
Who  can  tell  what  it  is?  A  flood  under  the 
surface,  a  tidal  river  —  what?  No  man  knows. 
But  they  are  sea  monsters  on  the  land.  Every 
morning  at  sunrise  they  begin  to  eddy  and  roll 
— and  who  ever  saw  a  stranger  sight  ?  I)U7/,  I 
lo(  ked  back.  There  were  those  four  pirates 
coming  on,  about  three  miles  away.  Wliat  was 
there  to  do?  The  girl  and  myself  on  my  blown 
horse  were  too  much.  Then  a  great  idea  come 
to  me.     I   must  reach  and  cross  the  Jumping 


IK 

H' 


i 


w 


i.. 


Across  the  Jumping  Sandhills  13 

Sandhills   before   sunrise.     It   v  as    one  deadly 
chance. 

"When  we  got  to  the  edge  of  the  sand  tliey 
were  almost  a  mile  behind.  I  was  all  sick  to  my 
teeth  as  my  poor  I'ophet  stepped  into  the  silt. 
God!  how  I  watched  the  dawn!  Slow,  slow,  we 
dragged  over  that  velvet  powder.  As  we  reached 
the  farther  side  I  could  feel  it  was  beginning  to 
move.  The  sun  was  showing  like  the  lid  of  an 
eye  along  the  plain.  I  looked  back.  All  four 
horsemen  were  in  the  sand,  plunging  on  towards 
us.  liy  the  time  we  touched  the  brown-green 
prairie  on  the  farther  side  the  sand  was  rolling 
behind  us.  The  girl  had  not  looked  back.  She 
was  too  dazed.  I  jumped  from  the  horse,  and 
told  her  that  she  must  push  on  alone  to  the 
Fort,  that  Tophet  could  not  carry  both,  that  I 
should  be  in  no  danger.  She  looked  at  me  so 
deep  —  ah,  I  cannot  tell  how!  then  stooped  and 
kissed  me  between  the  eyes  —  I  have  never  for- 
got. I  struck  Tophet,  and  she  was  gone  to  her 
happiness;  for  before  Mights  out!'  she  reached 
the  Fort  and  her  lover's  arms. 

"But  I  stood  looking  back  on  the  Jumping 
Sandhills.  So,  was  there  ever  a  sight  like  that 
' — those  hills  gone  like  a  smelting-fioor,  the  sun- 
rise spotting  it  with  rose  and  yellow,  and  three 
horses  and  their  riders  fighting  what  cannot  be 


I 


II 


r 


1 


1 


I 


»«( 


14 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


fought? — What  could  I  do?  They  would  have 
got  the  girl  and  spoiled  her  life,  if  I  had  not  led 
thcMi  across,  and  they  would  have  killed  ine  if 
they  could.  Only  one  cried  out,  and  then  but 
once,  in  a  long  shriek.  Ihit  after,  all  three  were 
quiet  as  they  fought,  until  tliey  were  gone  where 
no  man  could  see,  where  none  cries  out  so  we 
can  hear.  The  last  thing  I  saw  was  a  hand 
stretching  up  out  of  the  sand." 

There  was  a  long  j)ause,  painful  to  hear.  The 
Trader  sat  with  eyes  fixed  humbly  as  a  dog's  on 
Pierre.     At  last  Macavoy  said: 

"She  kissed  ye,  Pierre,  aw  yis ;  she  did  that! 
Jist  betune  the  eyes.  Do  yees  iver  see  her  now, 
Pierre  ?  " 

But  Pierre,  looking  at  him,  made  no  answer. 


I 


I 


l|   t 


A  Lovely  Bully 

He  was  seven  feet  and  fat.  lie  came  to  Fort 
O'Angel  at  Hudson's  Hay,  an  immense  slip  of  a 
lad,  very  much  in  the  way,  fond  of  horses,  a  won- 
derful hand  at  wrestling,  pretending  a  horrible 
temper,  threatening  tragedies  for  all  who  differed 
from  him,  making  the  Fort  cpiake  with  his  rich 
roar,  and  playing  the  game  of  bully  with  a  fine 
simplicity.  In  winter  he  fattened,  in  summer  he 
sweated,  at  all  times  he  ate  eloquently. 

It  was  a  picture  to  see  him  with  the  undercut 
of  a  haunch  of  deer  or  buffalo,  or  with  a  whole 
prairie-fowl  on  his  plate,  his  eyes  measuring  it 
shrewdly,  his  coat  and  waistcoat  open,  and  a 
clear  space  about  him — for  he  needed  room  to 
stretch  his  mighty  limbs,  and  his  necessity  was 
recognized  by  all. 

Occasionally  he  pretended  to  great  ferocity, 
but  scowl  he  ever  so  much,  a  laugh  kept  idling 
in  his  irregular  bushy  beard,  which  lifted  about 
his  face  in  the  wind  like  a  mane,  or  made  a  kind 
of  underbrush  through  which  his  blunt  fingers 
ran  at  hide-and-seek. 

15 


1! 


s 


i6 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


He  was  Irish,  and  his  name  was  Macavoy. 
In  later  days,  when  Fort  O'Angel  was  invaded 
by  settlers,  he  had  his  time  of  greatest  impor- 
tance. 

He  had  been  useful  to  the  Chief  Trader  at 
the  Fort  in  the  early  days,  and  having  the  run 
of  the  Fort  and  the  reach  of  his  knife  at  table, 
was  little  likely  to  discontinue  his  adherence. 
But  he  ate  and  drank  with  all  the  dwellers  at 
the  Post,  and  abused  all  impartially. 

"Malcolm,"  said  he  to  the  Trader,  "Malcolm, 
me  glutton  o'  the  H.B.C.,  that  wants  the  Far 
North  for  your  footstool — Malcolm,  you  villain, 
it  *s  me  grief  that  I  know  you,  and  me  thumb  to 
me  nose  in  token  !" 

Wiley  and  Hatchett,  the  principal  settlers,  he 
abused  right  and  left,  and  said,  "Wasn't  there 
land  in  the  East  and  West,  that  ye  steal  the 
country  God  made  for  honest  men  ? — ye  rob- 
bers of  the  wide  world  !  Me  tooth  on  the  Book, 
and  I  tell  you  what,  it 's  only  me  charity  that 
kapes  me  from  spoilin'  ye.  For  a  wink  of  me 
eye,  an'  away  you  'd  go,  leaving  your  tails  behind 
you — and  pass  that  shoulder  of  bear,  ye  pirates, 
till  I  come  to  it  side- ways,  like  a  hog  to  war!" 

He  was  even  less  sympathetic  with  Bareback, 
the  chief,  and  his  braves.  "Sons  o'  Anak  y'  are; 
here  to-day  and  away  to-morrow,  like  the  clods 


jji. 


A  Lovely  Bully 


17 


Vlacavoy. 

invaded 

t  impor- 

Hrader  at 
the  run 
at  table, 
herence. 
sellers  at 

lalcolm, 
the  Far 
1  villain, 
tiumb  to 

tiers,  he 
I't  there 
teal  the 
ye  rob- 
Book, 
ty  that 
of  me 
behind 
Dirates, 
war!" 
reback, 
y'  are ; 
J  clods 


of  the  valley — and  that 's  yer  portion.  Bareback. 
It 's  the  word  o'  the  Pentytook — in  pieces  you 
go,  like  a  potter's  vessel.  Do  n't  shrug  your 
shoulders  at  nie,  Bareback,  you  pig,  or  you  '11 
think  that  Ballzeboob  's  loose  on  the  mat  I  But 
take  a  sup  o'  this  whisky,  while  you  shwear  wid 
your  hand  on  your  chist,  *Amin'  to  the  words  o' 
Tim  Macavoyl" 

Beside  Macavoy,  Pierre  the  notorious,  was  a 
child  in  height.  Up  to  the  time  of  the  half- 
breed's  coming  the  Irishman  had  been  the  most 
outstanding  man  at  Fort  O'Angel,  and  was  sure 
of  a  good-natured  homage,  acknowledged  by 
him  with  a  jovial  tyranny. 

Pierre  put  a  flea  in  his  ear.  He  was  pen- 
sively indifferent  to  him  even  in  his  most  royal 
moments.  He  guessed  the  way  to  bring  down 
the  gusto  and  pride  of  this  Goliath,  but,  for  a 
purpose,  he  took  his  own  time,  nodding  indo- 
lently to  Macavoy  when  he  met  him,  but  avoid- 
ing talk  with  him. 

Among  the  Indian  maidens  Macavoy  was  like 
a  king  or  khan ;  for  they  count  much  on  bulk 
and  beauty,  and  he  answered  to  their  standards 
— especially  to  Wonta's.  It  was  a  sight  to  see 
him  of  a  summer  day,  sitting  in  the  shade  of  a 
pine,  his  shirt  open,  showing  his  firm  brawny 
chest,  his  arms  bare,  his  face  shining  with  per- 


I 


-«(*!«, 


i8 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


K  t 


I  .       ;j> 


I       '» 


spiration,  his  big  voice  gurgling  in  his  beard,  his 
eyes  rolling  amiably  upon  the  maidens  as  they 
passed  or  gathered  near  demurely,  while  he  de- 
claimed of  mighty  deeds  in  patois  or  Chinook  to 
the  braves. 

Pierre's  humour  was  of  the  quietest,  most 
subterranean  kind.  He  knew  that  Macavoy  had 
not  an  evil  hair  in  his  head;  that  vanity  was  his 
greatest  weakness,  and  that  through  him  there 
never  would  have  been  more  half-breed  popula- 
tion. There  was  a  tradition  that  he  had  a  wife 
somewhere — based  upon  wild  words  he  had  once 
said  when  under  the  influence  of  bad  liquor; 
but  he  had  roared  his  accuser  the  lie  when  the 
thing  was  imputed  to  him. 

At  Fort  Ste.  Anne,  Pierre  had  known  an  old 
woman,  by  name  of  Kitty  Whelan,  whose  char- 
acter was  all  tatters.  She  had  told  him  that 
many  years  agone  she  had  had  a  broth  of  a  lad 
for  a  husband;  but  because  of  a  sharp  word  or 
two  across  the  fire,  and  the  toss  of  a  handful  of 
furniture,  he  had  left  her,  and  she  had  seen  no 
more  of  him.  "  Tall  like  a  chimney  he  was," 
said  she,  *'  and  a  chest  like  a  wall,  so  broad,  and 
a  voice  like  a  huntsman's  horn,  though  only  a 
b'y,  an'  no  hair  an  his  face;  an'  she  did  n't  know 
whether  he  was  dead  or  alive;  but  dead  belike, 
for  he  's  sure  to  come  rap  agin'  somethin'  that  'd 


»'i1 


A  Lovely  Bully 


19 


kill  him;  for  he,  the  darlin',  was  that  aisy  and 
gentle,  he  would  n't  pull  his  fightin'  iron  till  he 
had  death  in  his  ribs." 

Pierre  had  drawn  from  her  that  the  name  of 
this  man  whom  she  had  cajoled  into  a  marriage 
(being  herself  twenty  years  older),  and  driven  to 
deserting  her  afterward,  was  Tim  Macavoy. 
She  had  married  Mr.  Whelan  on  the  assumption 
that  Macavoy  was  dead.  But  Mr.  Whelan  had 
not  the  nerve  to  desert  her,  and  so  he  departed 
this  life,  very  loudly  lamented  by  Mrs.  Whelan, 
who  had  changed  her  name  with  no  right  to  do 
so.  With  his  going  her  mind  dwelt  greatly  upon 
the  virtues  of  her  mighty  vanished  Tim  :  and  ill 
would  it  be  for  Tim  if  she  found  him. 

Pierre  had  journeyed  to  Fort  O'Angel  almost 
wholly  because  he  had  Tim  Macavoy  in  his 
mind;  in  it  Mrs.  Whelan  had  only  an  incidental 
part:  his  plans  journeyed  beyond  her  and  her 
lost  consort.  He  was  determined  on  an  expedi- 
tion to  capture  Fort  Comfort,  which  had  been 
abandoned  by  the  great  Company,  and  was  now 
held  by  a  great  band  of  the  Shunup  Indians. 

Pierre  had  a  taste  for  conquest  for  its  own 
sake ;  though  he  had  no  personal  ambition. 
The  love  of  adventure  was  deep  in  him,  he 
adored  sport  for  its  own  sake,  he  had  had  a 
long  range  of  experiences — some  discreditable, 


i 


20 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


{ 


t  I  ( 


}-  1 


and  now  he  had  determined  on  a  field  for  his 
talent. 

He  would  establish  a  kingdom,  and  resign  it. 
In  that  case  he  must  have  a  man  to  take  his 
place.     He  chose  Macavoy. 

First  he  must  humble  the  giant  to  the  earth, 
then  make  him  into  a  great  man  again,  with  a 
new  kind  of  courage.  The  undoing  of  Macavoy 
seemed  a  civic  virtue.  He  had  a  long  talk  with 
Wonta,  the  Indian  maiden  most  admired  by 
Macavoy.  Many  a  time  the  Irishman  had  cast 
an  ogling,  rolling  eye  on  her,  and  had  talked 
his  loudest  within  her  ear-shot,  telling  of  splen- 
did things  he  had  done  :  making  himself  like 
another  Samson  as  to  the  destruction  of  men, 
and  a  Hercules  as  to  the  slaying  of  cattle. 

Wonta  had  a  sense  of  humour  also,  and  when 
Pierre  told  her  what  was  required  of  her,  she 
laughed  with  a  quick  little  gurgle,  and  showed 
as  handsome  a  set  of  teeth  as  the  half-breed's; 
which  said  much  for  her.  She  promised  to  do 
as  he  wished.  So  it  chanced  when  Macavoy  was 
at  his  favorite  seat  beneath  the  pine,  talking  to  a 
gaping  audience,  Wonta  and  a  number  of  Indian 
girls  passed  by.  Pierre  was  leaning  against  a 
door  smoking,  not  far  away.  Macavoy's  voice 
became  louder. 

"  *  Stand  them  up  wan  by  wan,'  says  I,  *  and 


yi 


A  Lovely  Bully 


21 


give  me  a  leg  loose  and  a  fist  free  ;  and  at 
that—'  " 

"At  that  there  wafi  thunder  and  fire  in  the 
sky,  and  because  the  great  Macavoy  blew  his 
breath  over  them  they  withered  like  the  leaves," 
cried  Wonta  laughing;  but  her  laugh  had  an 
edge. 

Macavoy  stopped  short,  open  -  mouthed, 
breathing  hard  in  his  great  beard.  He  was  as- 
tonished at  Wonta's  raillery:  the  more  so  when 
she  presently  snapped  her  fingers,  and  the  other 
maidens,  laughing,  did  the  same.  Some  of  the 
half-breeds  snapped  their  fingers  also  in  sym- 
pathy, and  shrugged  their  shoulders.  Wonta 
came  up  to  him  softly,  patted  him  on  the  head, 
and  said:  "  Like  Macavoy  there  is  nobody.  He 
is  a  great  brave.  He  is  not  afraid  of  a  coyote, 
he  has  killed  prairie-hens  in  numbers  as  pebbles 
by  the  lakes.  He  has  a  breast  like  a  fat  ox," — 
here  she  touched  the  skin  of  his  broad  chest, — 
"  and  he  will  die  if  you  do  not  fight  him." 

Then  she  drew  back,  as  though  in  humble 
dread,  and  glided  away  with  the  other  maidens, 
Macavoy  staring  after  her  with  a  blustering  kind 
of  shame  in  his  face.  The  half-breeds  laughed, 
and,  one  by  one,  they  got  up  and  walked  away 
also.  Macavoy  looked  round:  there  was  no  one 
near  save  Pierre,  whose  eye  rested  on  him  lazily. 


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22 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


Macavoy  got  to  his  feet  muttering.  This  was 
the  first  time  in  his  experience  at  Fort  O'Angel 
that  he  had  been  bluffed — and  by  a  girl ;  one 
for  whom  he  had  a  very  soft  place  in  his  big 
heart.     Pierre  rnme  slowl)'  over  to  him. 

"I  'd  have  it  out  with  her,"  said  he.  "  She 
called  you  a  bully  and  a  brag." 

"  Out  with  herl  "  cried  Macavoy.  *'  How  can 
yc  have  it  out  wid  a  woman?  " 

"  Fight  her,"  said  Pierre  pensively. 

"  Fight  her  !  fight  her  I  Holy  smoke  I  How 
can  ye  fight  a  woman?  " 

"  Why,  what — do  you — fight  ?  "  asked  Pierre 
innocently. 

Macavoy  grinned  in  a  wild  kind  of  fashion. 
"  Faith,  then,  y'  are  a  fool.  Bring  on  the  divil 
an'  all  his  angels,  say  I,  and  I  'U  fight  thim  where 
I  shtand." 

Pierre  ran  his  fingers  down  Macavoy's  arm, 
and  said,  "  There  's  time  enough  for  that.  I  'd 
begin  with  the  five." 

"What  five,  then  ?" 

"  Her  half-breed  lovers :  Big  Eye,  One  Toe, 
Jo-John,  Saucy  Boy,  and  Limber  Legs." 

"  Her  lovers!  Her  lovers,  is  it?  Is  there  truth 
on  y'r  tongue  ?  " 

"  Go  to  her  father's  tent  at  sunset,  and  you  '11 
find  one  or  all  of  them  there." 


i:i 


il 


A  Lovely  Bully 


23 


"Oh,  is  that  it  ?"  said  the  Irishman,  opening 
and  shutting  his  fists.  "Tlicn  1 '11  carve  their 
hearts  out,  an'  ate  thim  wan  by  wan  this  night." 

"  Couje  down  to  Wiley's,"  said  Pierre,  "there  's 
belter  company  there  than  here." 

Pierre  had  arranged  many  things,  and  had 
secured  partners  in  his  little  scheme  for  humbling 
the  braggart.  He  so  worked  on  the  other's  good 
nature  that  by  the  time  they  reached  the 
settler's  place,  Macavoy  was  stretching  himself 
with  a  big  pride.  Seated  at  Wiley's  table,  with 
Hatchett  and  others  near,  and  drink  going 
about,  someone  drew  the  giant  on  to  talk,  and 
so  deftly  and  with  such  apparent  innocence  did 
Pierre,  by  a  word  here  and  a  nod  there,  encour- 
age him,  that  presently  he  roared  at  Wiley  and 
Hatchett — 

"Ye  shameless  buccaneers  that  push  yer 
way  into  the  tracks  of  honest  men,  where  the 
Company's  been  three  hundred  years  by  the 
will  o'  God — if  it  was  n't  for  me,  ye  Jack  Shep- 
pards — " 

Wiley  and  Platchett  both  got  to  their  feet 
with  pretended  rage,  saying  he  'd  insulted  them 
both,  that  he  was  all  froth  and  brawn,  and  giv- 
ing him  the  lie. 

Utterly  taken  aback,  Macavoy  could  only 
stare,  puffing  in  his  beard,  and  drawing  in  his 


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24 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


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legs,  which  had  been  spread  out  at  angles.  He 
looked  from  Wiley  to  the  impassive  Pierre. 

" Buccaneers,  you  call  us,"  Wiley  went  on; 
"we  '11  have  no  more  of  that,  or  there  '11  be 
trouble  at  Fort  O'Angel." 

"Ah,  sure  y 'are  only  jokin',"  said  Macavoy, 
"for  I  love  ye,  ye  scoundrels.  It  's  only  me 
fun." 

"For  fun  like  that  you  '11  pay,  ruffian!"  said 
Hatchett,  bringing  down  his  fist  on  the  table 
with  a  bang. 

Macavoy  stood  up.  He  looked  confounded, 
but  there  was  nothing  of  the  coward  in  his  face. 
"  Oh,  well,"  said  he,  "  I  '11  be  goin',  for  ye  've 
got  y'r  teeth  all  raspin'." 

As  he  went  the  two  men  laughed  after  him 
mockingly.  "Wind  like  a  bag,"  said  Hatchett. 
"Bone  like  a  marrowfat  pea,"  added  Wiley. 

Macavoy  was  at  the  door,  but  at  that  he 
turned.  "  If  ye  care  to  sail  agin  that  wind,  an* 
gnaw  on  that  bone,  I  'd  not  be  sayin'  you  no." 

"Will  tonight  do — at  sunset?"  said  Wiley. 

"Bedad,  then,  me  b'ys,  sunset  '11  do — an'  not 
more  than  two  at  a  toime,"  he  added  softly,  all 
the  roar  gone  from  his  throat.  Then  he  went 
out,  followed  by  Pierre. 

Hatchett  and  Wiley  looked  at  each  other  and 
laughed  a  little  confusedly.     "  What  's  that  he 


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A  Lovely  Bully  25 

said?"  muttered  Wiley.     "Not  more  than  two 
at  a  time,  was  it  ?" 

"That  was  it.  I  do  n't  know  that  it 's  what 
we  bargained  for,  after  all."  He  looked  round 
on  the  other  settlers  present,  who  had  been  awed 
by  the  childlike,  earnest  note  in  Macavoy's  last 
words.  They  shook  their  heads  now  a  little 
sagely;  they  were  n't  so  sure  that  Pierre's  little 
game  was  so  jovial  as  it  had  promised. 

Even  Pierre  had  hardly  looked  for  so  much 
from  his  giant  as  yet.  In  a  little  while  he  had 
got  Macavoy  back  to  his  old  humour. 

"What  was  I  made  for  but  war!"  said  the 
Irishman,  "an'  by  war  to  kape  thim  at  peace, 
wherever  I  am." 

Soon  he  was  sufficiently  restored  in  spirits  to 
go  with  Pierre  to  Bareback's  lodge,  where,  sit- 
ting at  the  tent  door,  with  idlers  about,  he 
smoked  with  the  chief  and  his  braves.  Again 
Pierre  worked  upon  him  adroitly,  and  again  he 
became  loud  in  speech  and  grandly  patronizing. 

"I  've  stood  by  ye  like  a  father,  ye  loafers," 
he  said,  "  an'  I  give  you  my  word,  ye  howlin' 
rogues — " 

Here  Bareback  and  a  half-dozen  braves  came 
up  suddenly  from  the  ground,  and  the  chief  said 
fiercely :  "  You  speak  crooked  things.  We  are 
no  rogues.     We  will  fight." 


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36 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


J,! 


Macavoy's  face  ran  red  to  his  hair.  He 
scralclicd  his  head  a  little  foolishly,  and  gath- 
ered himself  up.  "  Sure, 't  was  only  ine  tasin', 
darlin's,"  he  said,  "but  I  '11  be  coinin'  again, 
when  y'  are  not  so  narvis."  lie  turned  to  go 
away. 

Pierre  made  a  sign  to  Bareback,  and  the 
Indian  touched  the  giant  on  the  arm.  "  Will 
you  fight?"  said  he. 

"  Not  all  o'  ye  at  once,"  said  Macavoy  slowly, 
running  his  eye  carefully  along  the  half-dozen ; 
"not  more  than  three  at  a  toime,"  he  added 
with  a  simple  sincerity,  his  voice  again  gone  like 
the  dove's.  "  At  what  time  will  it  be  convayn- 
yint  for  ye  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  At  sunset,"  said  the  chief,  "  before  the 
Fort." 

Macavoy  nodded  and  walked  away  with 
"^ierre,  whose  glance  of  approval  at  the  Indians 
did  not  make  them  thoroughly  happy. 

To  rouse  the  giant  was  not  now  so  easy.  He 
had  already  three  engagements  of  violence  for 
sunset.  Pierre  directed  their  steps  by  a  round- 
about to  the  Company's  stores,  and  again  there 
was  a  distinct  improvement  in  the  giant's  spirits. 
Here  at  least  he  could  be  himself,  he  thought, 
here  no  one  should  say  him  nay.  As  if  nerved 
by  the  idea,  he  plunged  at  once  into  boisterous 


, 


A  Lovely  Bully  27 

raillery  of  the  Chief  Trader.  "Oh,  ho,"  he 
bc,<,ran,  "  me  freebooter,  me  captain  av  the  loot- 
ers av  the  North  1" 

The  Trader  snarled  at  him.  "What  d'ye 
mean,  by  such  talk  to  me,  sir?  I've  liad 
enough— we've  all  had  enough— of  your  brag 
and  bounce;  for  you  're  all  sweat  and  swill-pipe, 
and  I  give  you  this  for  your  chewing,  that  though 
by  the  Company's  rules  I  can  't  go  out  and  fight 
you,  you  may  have  your  pick  of  my  men  for  it. 
I  '11  take  my  pay  for  your  insults  in  pounded 
flesh — Irish  pemmican  I" 

Macavoy's  face  became  mottled  with  sudden 
rage.  He  roared,  as,  perhaps,  he  had  never 
roared  before — 

"Are  ye  all  gone  mad— mad— mad  ?  I  was 
jokin'  wid  ye,  whin  I  called  ye  this  or  that.  But 
by  the  swill  o'  me  pipe,  and  the  sweat  o'  me 
skin,  I  '11  drink  the  blood  o'  yees,  Trader,  me 
darlin'.  An'  all  I  '11  ask  is,  that  ye  mate  me  to- 
night whin  the  rest  o'  the  pack  is  in  front  o'  the 
Fort— but  not  more  than  four  o'  yees  at  a  time 
—for  little  scrawney  rats  as  y'  are,  too  many  o' 
yees  wad  be  in  me  way."  Pie  wheeled  and 
strode  fiercely  out.     Pierre  smiled  gently. 

"He's  a  great  bully  that,  isn't  he.  Trader? 
There'll  be  fun  in  front  of  the  Fort  to-night. 
For  he  's  only  bragging,  of  course— eh  ?" 


,» 


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1 

38 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


'!'• 


The  Trader  nodded  with  no  great  assurance, 

and  then  I'ierre  said  as  a  parting  word  :  *'  You  '11 

be  there,  of  course— only   'four  o' yees!*  "  and 

hurried  out  after  Macavoy,   humming  to  liim- 

self— 

*•  For  the  Kinfj  said  this,  and  tlie  Queen  said  that, 
But  he  walked  away  with  their  army,  O  !" 

So  far  I'ierre's  plan  had  worked  even  better 
than  he  ex[)ected,  though  Macavoy's  moods  had 
not  been  altogether  after  his  imaginings.  lie 
drew  alongside  the  giant,  who  had  suddenly 
grown  quiet  again.  Macavoy  turned  and  looked 
down  at  Pierre  with  the  candour  of  a  schoolboy, 
and  his  voice  was  very  low — 

"It's  a  long  time  ago,  I'm  thinkin',"  he 
said,  "since  I  lost  me  frinds — ages  an'  ages  ago. 
For  me  frinds  are  me  inimies  now,  an'  that  makes 
a  man  old.  But  I  '11  not  say  that  it  cripples  his 
arm  or  humbles  his  back."  He  drew  his  arm  up 
once  or  twice  and  shot  it  out  straight  into  the 
air  like  a  catapult.  "It's  all  right,"  he  added, 
very  softly,  "an',  Half-breed,  me  b'y,  if  me  frinds 
have  turned  inimies,  why,  I  'm  minkin'  me  inimy 
has  turned  frind,  for  that  I  'm  sure  you  were,  an' 
this  I  'm  certain  y'  are.  So  here  's  the  grip  av 
me  list,  an'  y'  U  have  it." 

Pierre  remembered  that  disconcerting,  iron 
grip  of  friendship  for  many  a  day.     He  laughed 


» 


A  Lovely  Bully 


29 


to  himself  to  think  how  he  was  turning  thcbmc;- 
gart  into  a  warrior. 

••Well,"  said  Pierre,  ••what  about  those  five 
at  Woiua's  tent?" 

"I  Ml  be  there  whin  the  sun  dips  below  the 
Little  Red  Hill,"  he  said,  as  thou^^h  his  lhoiii,dits 
were  far  away,  and  he  turned  his  face  t(nvards 
Wonta's  tent.  Presently  he  lau<;hed  out  loud, 
•'j.t  's  many  a  long  day,"  he  said,  •'since—*' 

Then  he  changed  his  thoughts.  ''They've 
spoke  sharp  words  in  me  teeth,"  he  continued, 
"and  they  '11  pay  for  it.  Pounce  !  sweat !  brag  I 
wind  I  is  it  ?  There  's  dancin'  beyant  this  night, 
me  darlins ! " 

"Are  you  sure  you  '11  not  run  away  when  they 
come  on?"  said  Pierre,  a  little  ironically. 

"Is  that  the  word  av  a  frind  ?"  replied  Maca- 
voy,  a  hand  fumbling  in  his  hair. 

"Did  you  never  run  away  when  faced?" 
Pierre  asked  pitilessly. 

"I  never  turned  tail  from  a  man,  though,  to 
be  sure,  it 's  been  more  talk  than  fight  up  here  : 
Fort  Ste.  Anne  's  been  but  a  graveyard  for  fun 
these  vears." 

"Eh,  well,"  persisted  Pierre,  "but  did  you 
never  turn  tail  from  a  slip  of  a  woman  ?" 

The  thing  was  said  idly.  Macavoy  gathered 
his  beard  in  his  mouth,  chewing  it  confusedly. 


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30 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


"You  've  a  keen  tongue  for  a  question,"  was  his 
reply.  "  What  for  should  any  man  run  from  a 
woman  ?" 

"When  the  furniture  flies,  and  the  woman 
knows  more  of  the  world  in  a  day  than  the  man 
does  in  a  year;  and  the  man  's  a  hulking  bit  of 
an  Irishman — die^i,  then  things  are  so  and  so!" 

Macavoy  drew  back  dazed,  his  big  legs  trem- 
bling. "Come  into  the  shade  of  these  maples," 
said  Pierre,  "  for  the  sun  has  set  you  quaking  a 
little,"  and  he  put  out  his  hand  to  take  Maca- 
voy's  arm. 

The  giant  drew  away  from  the  hand,  but 
walked  on  to  the  trees.  His  face  seemed  to 
have  grown  older  by  years  on  the  moment. 
"What's  this  y' are  sayin'  to  me?"  he  said 
hoarsely.  "What  do  you  know  av — av  f/iai 
woman  ?" 

"Malahide  is  a  long  way  off,"  said  Pierre, 
"but  when  one  travels  why  should  n't  the 
other?" 

Macavoy  made  a  helpless  motion  with  his 
lumbering  hand.  "Mother  o'  saints,"  he  said, 
"has  it  come  to  that,  after  all  these  years?  Is 
she — tell  me  where  she  is,  me  frind,  and  you  '11 
niver  want  an  arm  to  fight  for  ye,  an'  the  half  av 
a  blanket,  while  I  have  wan  ! " 

"But  you  '11  run  as  you  did  before,  if  I  tell 


ti! 


A  Lovely  Bully  31 

you,  an'  there  '11  be  no  fighting  to-night,  accord- 
in'  to  the  word  you  've  given." 

"No  fightin',  did  ye  say  ?  an'  run  away,  is  it  ? 
Then  this  in  your  eye,  that  if  ye  '11  bring  an 
army,  I  'II  fight  till  the  skin  is  in  rags  on  me 
bones,  whin  it 's  only  men  that 's  before  me ;  but 
women,  and  that  wan  I  Faith,  I  'd  run,  I  'm 
thinkin',  as  I  did,  you  know  when —  Do  n't  tell 
me  that  she  's  here,  man ;  arrah,  do  n't  say  that ! " 

There  was  something  pitiful  and  childlike  in 
the  big  man's  voice,  so  much  so  that  Pierre,  cal- 
culating gamester  as  he  was,  and  working  upon 
him  as  he  had  been  for  many  weeks,  felt  a  sud- 
den pity,  and  dropping  his  fingers  on  the  other's 
arm,  said:  "  No,  Macavoy,  my  friend,  she  is 
not  here;  but  she  is  at  Fort  Ste.  Anne— or  was 
when  I  left  there." 

Macavoy  groaned.  "  Does  she  know  that  I  'm 
here?"  he  asked. 

"  I  think  not.  Fort  Stf;.  Anne  is  far  away, 
and  she  may  not  hear." 

"What— what  is  she  doing?" 

"  Keeping  your  memory  and  Mr.  Whelan's 
green."  Then  Pierre  told  him  somewhat  bluntly 
what  he  knew  of  Mrs.  Macavoy. 

"  I  'd  rather  face  Ballzeboob  himself  than 
lier,"  said  Macavoy.  "An'  she 's  sure  to  find 
me." 


% 


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I'- 


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1t 


32  An  Adventurer  of  the  North 

Not  if  you  do  as  I  say." 
**  An'  what  is  it  ye  say,  little  man?" 
"  Come  away  with  me  where  she  '11  not  find 
you." 

"  An'  where  is  that,  Pierre  darlin'?" 
*'  I  '11  tell  you  that  when  to-night's  fighting  's 
over.     Have  you  a  mind  for  Wonta?  "    he  con- 
tinued. 

"  I  've  a  mind  for  Wonta  an'  many  another 
as  fine,  but  I  'm  a  married  man,"  he  said,  "  by 
priest  and  by  book  ;  an*  I  can 't  forget  that, 
tnough  the  womr.n  's  to  me  as  the  pit  below.  " 

Pierre  looked  curiously  at  him.  "  Vou  're 
a  wonderful  fool,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  not  sure 
that  I  like  you  less  for  that.  There  was  Shon 
M'Gann — but  it  is  no  matter."  Here  he  sighed. 
"When  to-night  is  over,  you  shall  have  work 
and  fun.  that  you  've  been  fattening  for  this 
many  a  year,  and  the  woman  '11  not  find  you,  be 
sure  of  that.  Besides — "  he  whispered  in  Maca- 
voy's  ear. 

"Poor  divil,  poor  divll,  she  'd  always  a  throat 
for  that;  but  it 's  a  horrible  death  to  die,  I  'm 
thinkin'."  Macavoy's  chin  dropped  on  hij 
breast. 

When  the  sun  was  falling  belov/  Little  Red 
Hill,  Macavoy  came  to  Wonta's  tent.  Pierre 
was  not  far  away.      What  occurred  in  the  tent 


-i 


'  I 


I 

I 


i 


A  Lovely  Bully  ^^ 

Pierre  never  quite  knew,  but  presently  he  saw 
Wonta  run  out  in  a  frightened  way,  followed  by 
the  five  half-breeds,  who  carried  theniselves 
awkwardly.  Behind  them  again,  with  head 
shaking  from  one  side  to  the  other,  traveled 
Macavoy;  and  they  all  marched  away  towards 
the  Fort. 

"Well,"  said  Pierre  to  Wonta,  "he's  amus- 
ing, eh?— so  big  a  coward,  eh?" 

"  No,  no,  "  she  said,  "  you  are  wrong.  He  is 
no  coward.  He  is  a  great  t  rave.  He  spoke  like 
a  little  child,  but  he  said  he  would  fight  them  all 
when — " 

"  When  their  turn  came,"  interposed  Pierre 
with  a  fine  "bead"  of  humour  in  his  voicej 
"  well,  you  see  he  has  much  to  do." 

He  pointed  towards  the  Fort,  where  people 
were  gathering  fast.  The  strange  news  nad 
gone  abroad,  and  the  settlement,  laughing  joy- 
ously, came  to  see  Macavoy  swagger:  they  did 
not  think  there  would  be  fighting. 

Those  whom  Macavoy  had  challenged  were 
not  so  sure.  When  the  giant  reached  the  open 
space  in  front  of  the  Fort,  he  looked  slowly 
round  him.  A  great  change  had  come  over  him. 
His  skin  seemed  drawn  together  more  firmly, 
and  running  himself  up  finely  to  his  full  height,' 
he  looked   no   longer   the   lounging   braggart! 


34 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


I   i 


!\  \ 


Pierre  measured  him  with  his  eye,  and  chuckled 
to  himself.  Macavoy  stripped  himself  of  his 
coat  and  waistcoat,  and  rolled  up  his  sleeves. 
His  shirt  was  flying  at  the  chest. 

He  beckoned  to  Pierre. 

"Are  you  standin'  me  frind  in  this?"  he  said. 

"Now  and  after,"  said  Pierre. 

His  voice  was  very  simple.  "  I  never  felt  as 
I  do,  since  the  day  the  coast-guardsmin  dropped 
on  me  in  Ireland  far  away,  an'  I  drew  blood,  an* 
every  wan  o*  them  —  fine  beautiful  b'ys  they 
looked — stretchin*  out  on  the  ground  wan  by 
wan.  D*  ye  know  the  double-an'-twist?"  he 
suddenly  added,  "  for  it  *s  a  honey  trick  whin 
they  gather  in  an  you,  an*  you  can  *t  be  layin* 
out  wid  yer  fists.  It  plays  the  divil  wid  the 
spines  av  thim.  Will  ye  have  a  drop  av  drink — 
cold  wather,  man — near,  an'  a  sponge  betune 
whiles?  For  there  's  many  in  the  play — makin* 
up  for  lost  time.  Come  an,"  he  added  to  the  two 
settlers,  who  stood  not  far  away,  "  for  ye  began 
the  trouble,  an*  we  '11  settle  accordin*  to  a,  b,  c." 

Wiley  and  Hatchett,  responding  to  his  call, 
stepped  forward,  though  they  had  now  little 
relish  for  the  matter.  They  were  pale,  but  they 
stripped  their  coats  and  waistcoats,  and  Wiley 
stood  bravely  in  front  of  Macavoy.  The  giant 
looked  down  on  him,  arms  folded.    "  I  said  two 


A  Lovely  Bully  ae 

of  you,"  he  crooned,  as  if  speaking  to  a  woman. 
Hatchett  stepped  forward  also.  An  instant  after 
the  settlers  were  lying  on  the  ground  at  different 
angles,  bruised  and  dismayed,  and  little  likely  to 
carry  on  the  war.  Macavoy  took  a  pail  of  water 
from  the  ground,  drank  from  it  lightly,  and 
waited.  None  other  of  his  opponents  stirred. 
"There's  three  Injins,"  he  said,  "three  rid 
divils,  that  wants  showin'  the  way  to  their  happy 
huntin'  grounds.  .  .  .  Sure,  y'  are  comin', 
ain't  you,  me  darlins?"  he  added  coaxingly,  and 
he  stretched  himself,  as  if  to  make  ready. 

Bareback,  the  chief,  now  harangued  the  three 
Indians,  and  they  stepped  forth  warily.     They 
had  determined  on  strategic  wrestling,  and  not 
on  the  instant  activity  of  fists.     But  their  wili- 
ness  was  useless,  for  Macavoy's  double-and-twist 
came  near  to  lessening  the  Indian  population  of 
Fort  O'Angel.     It  only  broke  a  leg  and  an  arm, 
however.     The  Irishman  came  out  of  the  tangle 
of  battle  with  a  wild  kind  of  light  m  his  eye,  his 
beard  all  torn,  and  face  battered.     A  shout  of 
laughter,  admiration,  and  wonder  went  up  from 
the  crowd.     There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and 
then    Macavoy,    whose   blood    ran    high,   stood 
forth  again.     The  Trader  came  to  him. 

"Must  this  go  on?"  he  said;  "haven't  you 
had  your  fill  of  it?" 


: 


36 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


'    li!'.. 


0  )  > 


Had  he  touched  Macavoy  with  a  word  of  hu- 
mour the  matter  might  have  ended  there;  but 
now  the  giant  spoke  loud,  so  all  could  hear. 

"Had  me  fill  av  it,  Trader,  me  angel  ?  I  'm 
only  gettin'  the  taste  av  it.  An'  ye  '11  plaze 
bring  on  yer  men — four  it  was — for  the  feed  av 
Irish  pemmican." 

The  Trader  turned  and  swore  at  Pierre,  who 
smiled  enigmatically.  Soon  after,  two  of  the 
best  fighters  of  the  Company's  men  stood  forth. 
Macavoy  shook  his  head.  "Four,  I  said,  an* 
four  I  '11  have,  or  I  '11  ate  the  heads  aff  these." 

Shamed,  the  Trader  sent  forth  two  more.  All 
on  an  instant  the  four  made  a  rush  on  the  giant ; 
and  there  was  a  stiff  minute  after,  in  which  it 
was  not  clear  that  he  was  happy.  Blows  rattled 
on  him,  and  one  or  two  he  got  on  the  head,  just 
as  he  spun  a  man  senseless  across  the  grass, 
which  sent  him  staggering  backward  for  a  mo- 
ment, sick  and  stunned. 

Pierre  called  over  to  him  swiftly:  "  Remember 
Malahide!" 

This  acted  on  him  like  a  charm.  There  never 
was  oeen  such  a  shattered  bundle  of  men  as  came 
out  from  his  hands  a  few  minutes  later.  As  for 
himself,  he  had  but  a  rag  or  two  on  him,  but 
stood  unmindful  of  his  state,  and  the  fever  of  bat- 
tle untamable  on  him.     The  women  drew  away. 


II  ',' 


/<■ 


A  Lovely  Bully  37 

"Now,  me  babes  o'  the  wood,"  he  shouted, 
"that  sit  at  the  feet  av  the  finest  Injiii  woman  in 
the  North— though  she  's  no  frind  0'  mine— and 
are  n't  fit  to  kiss  her  moccasin,  come  an  widyou, 
till  I  have  me  fun  wid  yer  spines." 

But  a  shout  went  up,  and  the  crowd  pointed. 
There  were  the  five  half-breeds  running  away 
across  the  plains. 

The  game  was  over. 

"  Here 's  some  clothes,  man  ;  for  heaven's  sake 
put  them  on,"  said  the  Trader. 

Then  the  giant  became  conscious  of  his  con- 
dition, and  like  a  timid  girl  he  hurried  into  the 
clothing. 

The  crowd  would  have  carried  him  on  their 
shoulders,  but  he  would  have  none  of  it. 

"I've  only  wan  frind  here,"  he  said,  "an' 
it 's  Pierre,  an'  to  his  shanty  I  go  an'  no  other." 

"Come,  mon  ami;'  said  Pierre,  "for  to-mor- 
row we  travel  far." 

"And  what  for  that ?"  asked  Macavoy. 

Pierre  whispered  in  his  ear:  "To  make  you  a 
king,  my  lovely  bully." 


t\\ 


The  Filibuster 


II  \\  I 


\    M 


Pierre  had  determined  to  establish  a  king- 
dom, not  for  gain,  but  for  conquest's  sake.  But 
because  h.  knew  that  the  thing  would  pall,  he 
took  with  him  Macavoy  the  giant,  to  make  him 
king  instead.  But  first  he  made  Macavoy  from 
a  lovely  bully,  a  bulk  of  good-natured  brag,  into 
a  Hercules  of  fight;  for,  having  made  him  insult 
— and  be  insulted  by — near  a  score  of  men  at 
Fort  O'Angel,  he  also  made  him  fight  them  by 
twos,  threes,  and  fours,  all  on  a  summer's  even- 
ing, and  send  them  away  broken.  Macavoy 
would  have  hesitated  to  go  with  Pierre,  were  it 
not  that  he  feared  a  woman.  Not  that  he  had 
wronged  her ;  she  had  wronged  him :  she  had 
married  him.  And  the  fear  of  one's  own  wife  is 
the  worst  fear  in  the  world. 

But  though  his  heart  went  out  to  women,  and 
his  tongue  was  of  the  race  that  beguiles,  he  stood 
to  his  "lines"  like  a  man,  and  people  wondered. 
Even  Wonta,  the  daughter  or  Foot-in-the-Sun, 
only  bent  him,  she  could  not  break  him  to  her 
will.     Pierre  turned  her  shy  coaxing  into  irony 

38 


The  Filibuster 


39 


— that  was  on  the  day  when  all  Fort  O'Angel 
conspired  to  prove  Macavoy  a  child  and  not  a 
warrior.  But  when  she  saw  what  she  had  done, 
and  that  the  giant  was  greater  than  his  years  of 
brag,  she  repented,  and  hung  a  dead  coyote  at 
Pierre's  door  as  a  sign  of  her  contempt. 

Pierre  watched  Macavoy,  sitting  with  a  sponge 
of  vinegar  to  his  head,  for  he  had  had  nasty  jolt- 
ings in  his  great  fight.  A  little  laugh  .ame  sim- 
mering up  to  the  half-breed's  lips,  but  dissolved 
into  silence. 

"  We  '11  start  in  the  morning,"  he  said. 

Macavoy  looked  up.  "  Whin  you  plaze;  but 
a  word  in  your  ear;  are  you  sure  she  7/  not  fol- 
low us?" 

"  She  does  n't  know.  Fort  Ste.  Anne  is  in 
the  south,  and  Fort  Comfort,  where  we  go,  is  far 
north." 

"But  if  she  kem!"  the  big  man  persisted. 

"  You  will  be  a  king ;  you  can  do  as  other 
kings  have  done!"  Pierre  chuckled. 

The  other  shook  his  head.  "  Says  Father 
Nolan  to  me,  says  he,  *  't  is  till  death  us  do  part, 
an'  no  man  put  asunder';  an'  I  '11  stand  by  that, 
though  I  'd  slice  out  the  bist  tin  years  av  me 
life,  if  I  niver  saw  her  face  again." 

"  But  the  girl,  Wonta — what  a  queen  she  'd 
make!" 


i 


40 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


'«i' 


I 


1/ 


'ill 


"Marry  her  yourself,  and  be  king  yourself, 
and  be  damned  to  you!  For  she,  like  the  rest, 
laughed  in  me  face,  whin  I  told  thim  of  the  d  ly 
whin  I—" 

"That 's  nothing.  She  hung  a  dead  co/ote 
at  my  door.  You  do  n't  know  women.  There  '11 
be  your  breed  and  hers  abroad  in  the  land  one 
day." 

Macavoy  stretched  to  his  feet — he  was  so  tall 
that  he  could  not  stand  upright  in  the  room. 
He  towered  over  Pierre,  who  blandly  eyed  him. 
"  I  've  another  word  for  your  ear,"  he  said 
darkly.  "  Kape  clear  av  the  likes  o'  that  wid  me. 
For  I  've  swallowed  a  tribe  of  divils.  It 's  fightin' 
you  want.  Well,  I'/ll  do  it — I  've  an  itch  for  the 
throats  of  men,  but  a  fool  I  '11  be  no  more  wid 
wimen,  white  or  red — that  hell-cat  that  spoilt  me 
life  an'  killed  me  child,  or — " 

A  sob  clutched  him  in  the  throat. 

"You  had  a  child,  then?"  said  Pierre  gently. 

"  An  angel  she  was,  wid  hair  like  the  sun,  an' 
'd  melt  the  heart  av  an  iron  god:  none  like  her 
above  or  below.  But  the  mother,  ah,  the  mother 
of  her!  One  day  whin  she  'd  said  a  sharp  word, 
wid  another  from  me,  an'  the  child  clinging  to 
her  dress,  she  turned  quick  and  struck  it,  mean- 
in'  to  anger  me.  Not  so  hard  the  blow  was,  but 
it  sent  the  darlin's  head  agin'  the  chimney-stone. 


'? 


I 


The  Filibuster 


41 


and  that  was  the  end  av  it.  For  she  took  to  her 
bed,  an'  agin'  the  crowin'  o'  the  cock  wan  mid- 
night, she  gives  a  little  cry  an'  snatched  at  me 
beard.  '  Daddy,'  says  she,  *  daddy,  it  hurts!'  An' 
thin  she  floats  away,  wid  a  stitch  av  pain  at  her 
lips." 

Macavoy  sat  down  now,  his  fingers  fumbling 

in  his  beard.      Pierre   was   uncomfortable.      He 

could  hear  of  battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death 

unmoved— it  seemed  to  him  in  the  game;    but 

the  tragedy  of  a  child — a  mere  counter  as  yet  in 

the  play  of  life— that  was  different.     He  slid  a 

hand  over  the  table,  and  caught  Macavoy's  arm. 

"Poor  little  waif  1"  he  said. 

Macavoy  gave  the  hand  a  grasp  that  turned 

Pierre  sick,  and  asked:  "  Had  ye  iver  a  child  av 

y'r  own,  Pierre — iver  wan  at  all?" 

"Never,"  said  Pierre  dreamily,  "and  I've 
traveled  far.  A  child— a  child— is  a  wonderful 
thing.     .     .     .     Poor  little  waif  !" 

They  both  sat  silent  for  a  moment.  Pierre 
was  about  to  rise,  but  Macavoy  suddenly  pinned 
him  to  his  seat  with  this  question:  "  Did  y'  iver 
have  a  wife  thin,  Pierre?" 

Pierre  turned  pale.  A  sharp  breath  came 
through  his   teeth.      He  spoke  slowly:    "  Yes, 


once. 


"And  she  died?"  :isked  the  other,  awed. 


I 


42 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


(I  ■ 


I' 


"We  all  have  our  day,"  he  replied  enigmati- 
cally, **  and  tiicrc  arc  worse  things  tJKin  death. 
.  .  .  Eh,  well,  man  ami,  let  us  talk  of  other 
things.  To-morrow  we  go  to  conquer.  1  know 
where  I  can  get  five  men  1  want.  1  have  ammu- 
nition and  dogs." 

A  few  minutes  afterward  Pierre  was  busy  in 
the  settlement.  At  the  Fort  he  heard  strange 
news.  A  new  batch  of  settlers  was  coining  from 
the  south,  and  among  them  was  an  old  Irish- 
woman who  called  herself  now  Mrs.  Whelan,  now 
Mrs.  Macavoy.  She  talked  much  of  the  lad  she 
was  to  find,  one  Tim  Macavoy,  whose  fame  gos- 
sip had  brought  to  her  at  last.  She  had  clung 
on  to  the  settlers,  and  they  could  not  shake  her 
off.  "  She  was  comin',"  she  said,  "to  her  own 
darlin*  b'y,  from  whom  she  'd  been  parted  many 
a  year,  believin'  him  dead,  or  Tom  Whelan  had 
niver  touched  hand  o'  hers." 

The  bearer  of  the  news  had  but  just  arrived, 
and  he  told  it  only  to  the  Trader  and  Pierre. 
At  a  word  from  Pierre  the  man  promised  to 
hold  his  peace.  Then  Pierre  went  to  Wonta's 
lodge.  He  found  her  with  her  father  alone, 
her  head  at  her  knees.  When  she  heard  his 
voice  she  looked  up  sharply,  and  added  a  sharp 
word  also. 

"Wait;"  he  said,  "women   are  such   fools. 


The  Filibuster 


43 


You  snapped  your  finders  in  his  face,  and 
laughed  at  him.  Well,  that  is  nothincf.  lie  has 
proved  himself  great.  That  is  something.  He 
will  be  greater  still,  if  the  other  woman  does  not 
find  him.  She  should  die,  but  then  some  women 
have  no  sense." 

••The  other  woman  !"  said  Wonta,  starting  to 
her  feet;  •'who  is  the  other  woman  ?" 

Old  Foot-in-thc-Sun  waked  and  sat  up,  but 
seeing  that  it  was  Pierre,  dropped  again  to  sleep. 
Pierre,  he  knew,  was  no  peril  to  any  woman. 
Besides,  Wonta  hated  the  half-breed,  as  he 
thought. 

Pierre  told  the  girl  the  story  of  Macavoy*s 
life ;  for  he  knew  that  she  loved  the  man  after  her 
heathen  fa^!lion,  and  that  she  could  be  trusted. 

"I  do  not  care  for  that,"  she  said,  when  he 
had  finished;  "it  is  nothing.  I  would  go  with 
him.  I  should  be  his  wife ;  the  other  should  die. 
I  would  kill  her  if  she  would  fight  me.  I  know 
the  way  of  knives,  or  a  rifle,  or  a  pinch  at  the 
throat — she  should  die  !" 

"Yes,  but  that  will  not  do.  Keep  your  hands 
free  of  her." 

Then  he  told  her  that  they  were  going  away. 
She  said  she  would  go  also.  He  said  no  to  that, 
but  told  her  to  wait  and  he  would  come  back  for 
her. 


44 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


i 


I     8" 


it  t 


Though  she  tried  hard  to  follow  them,  they 
slipped  awp.y  from  the  Fort  in  the  moist  gloom 
of  the  morning,  the  brown  grass  rustling,  the 
nrairie-hens  fluttering,  the  osiers  soughing  as 
they  passed,  the  Spirit  of  the  North,  ever  hun- 
gry, drawing  them  on  over  the  long  Divides. 
They  did  not  see  each  other's  faces  till  dawn. 
They  were  guided  by  Pierre's  voice ;  none  knew 
his  comrades.  Besides  Pierre  and  Macavoy, 
there  were  five  half-breeds — Noel,  Little  Babiche, 
Corvette,  Jos^,  and  Jacques  Parfaite.  When  they 
came  to  recognize  each  other  they  shook  hands 
and  marched  on.  In  good  time  they  reached 
that  wonderful  and  pleasant  country  between  the 
Barren  Grounds  and  the  Lake  of  Silver  Shallows. 
To  the  north  of  it  was  Fort  Comfort,  which  they 
had  come  to  take.  Macavoy's  rich  voice  roared 
as  of  old,  before  his  valour  was  questioned — and 
maintained — at  Fort  O'Angel.  Pierre  had  di- 
verted his  mind  from  the  woman  who,  at  Fort 
O'Angel,  was  even  now  calling  heaven  and  earth 
to  witness  that  "Tim  Macavoy  was  her  Macavoy 
and  no  other,  an'  she  'd  find  him — the  divii  and 
darlin',  wid  an  arm  like  Broin  Borhoime,  an'  a 
chist  you  could  build  a  house  on — if  she  walked 
till  Doomsday!" 

Macavoy  stood  out  grandly,  his  fat  all  gone 
to  muscle,  blowing  through  his  beard,  puffing 


;? 


,i        I     ../ 


The  Filibuster 


45 


his  cheek,  and  ready  with  tale  or  song.  But 
now  chat  they  were  facing  the  business  of  their 
journey  his  voice  got  soft  and  gentle,  as  it  did 
before  the  Fort,  when  he  grappled  his  foes  two 
by  two  and  three  by  three,  and  wrung  them  out. 
In  his  eyes  there  war^  the  thing  which  counts  as 
many  men  in  any  soldier's  sight,  when  he  leads 
in  battle.  As  he  said  himself,  he  was  made  for 
war,  like  Malachi  o'  the  Golden  Collar. 

Pierre  guessed  that  just  now  many  of  the 
Indians  would  be  away  for  the  summer  hunt,  and 
that  the  Fort  would  perhaps  be  held  by  only  a 
few  score  of  braves,  who,  however,  would  fight 
when  they  might  easier  play.  He  had  no  use- 
less compunctions  about  bloodshed.  A  human 
life  he  held  to  be  a  trifle  in  the  big  sum  of  time, 
and  that  it  was  of  little  moment  when  a  man 
went,  if  it  seemed  his  hour.  He  lived  up  to  his 
creed,  for  he  had  ever  held  his  own  life  as  a  bird 
upon  a  housetop  which  a  chance  stone  might 
drop. 

He  was  glad  afterward  that  he  had  decided 
to  'fight,  for  there  was  one  in  Fort  Comfort 
against  whom  he  had  an  old  grudge— the  Indian, 
Young  Eye,  who,  many  years  before,  had  been 
one  to  help  in  killing  the  good  Father  Halen, 
the  priest  who  dropped  the  water  on  his  fore- 
head and  set  the  cross  on  top  of  that,  when  he 


46 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


Ci 


h  ? 


^. 


was  at  his  mother's  breasts.  One  by  one  the 
murderers  had  been  killed,  save  this  man.  He 
had  wandered  north,  lived  on  the  Coppermine 
River  for  a  long  time,  and  at  length  had  come 
down  among  the  warring  tribes  at  the  Lake  of 
Silver  Shallows. 

Pierre  was  for  direct  attack.  They  crossed 
the  lake  in  their  canoes,  at  a  point  about  five 
miles  from  the  Fort,  and  so  far  as  they  could  tell, 
without  beine  seen.  Then  ammunition  went 
round,  and  they  marched  upon  the  Fort.  Pierre 
eyed  Macavoy — measured  him,  as  it  were,  for 
what  he  was  worth.  The  giant  seemed  happy. 
He  was  humming  a  tune  softly  through  his  beard. 

Suddenly  Jos^  paused,  dropped  to  the  foot  of 
a  pine,  and  put  his  ear  to  it.  Pierre  understood. 
He  had  caught  at  the  same  thing.  "  There  is  a 
dance  on,"  said  Jos^,  "  I  can  hear  the  drum." 

Pierre  thought  a  minute.  *'  We  will  recon- 
noitre," he  said  presently. 

"  It  is  near  night  now,"  remarked  Little  Ba- 
biche.  "I  know  something  of  these.  When 
they  have  a  great  snake  dance  at  night,  strange 
things  happen."  Then  he  spoke  in  a  low  tone 
to  Pierre. 

They  halted  in  the  bush,  and  Little  Babiche 
went  forward  to  spy  upon  the  Fort.  He  came 
back  just  after  sunset,  reporting  that  the  Indians 


K^ 


The  Filibuster 


47 


were  feasting.  He  had  crept  near,  and  had 
learned  that  the  braves  were  expected  back  from 
the  hunt  that  night,  and  that  the  feast  was  for 
their  welcome. 

The  Fort  stood  in  an  open  space,  with  tall 
trees  for  a  background.  In  front,  here  and 
there,  were  juniper  and  tamarack  bushes.  Pierre 
laid  his  plans  immediately,  and  gave  the  word  to 
move  on.  Their  presence  had  not  been  discov- 
ered, and  if  they  could  but  surprise  the  Indians 
the  Fort  might  easily  be  theirs.  They  made  a 
detour,  and  after  an  hour  came  upon  the  Fort 
from  behind.  Pierre,  himself,  went  forward 
cautiously,  leaving  Macavoy  in  command.  When 
he  came  again  he  said: 

"  It 's  a  fine  sight;  and  the  way  is  open.  They 
are  feasting  and  dancing.  If  we  can  enter  with- 
out being  seen,  we  are  safe,  except  for  food;  we 
must  trust  for  that." 

When  they  arrived  at  the  margin  of  the  woods 
a  wonderful  scene  was  before  them.  A  volcanic 
hill  rose  up  on  one  side,  gloomy  and  stern,  but 
the  reflection  of  the  fires  reached  it,  and  made 
its  sides  quiver — the  rock  itself  seemed  trem- 
bling. The  sombre  pines  showed  up,  a  wall  all 
round,  and  in  the  open  space,  turreted  with  fan- 
tastic fires,  the  Indians  swayed  in  and  out  with 
weird  chanting,  their  bodies  mostly  naked,  and 


u 

•'(I 


48 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


U 


^■'}|4 


'   11 


painted  in  strange  colours.  The  earth  itself  was 
still  and  sober.  Scarce  a  star  peeped  forth.  A 
purple  velvet  curtain  seemed  to  hang  all  down 
the  sky,  though  here  and  there  the  flame  bronzed 
it.  The  Indian  lodges  were  empty,  save  where 
a  few  children  squatted  at  the  openings.  The 
seven  stood  still  with  wonder,  till  Pierre  whis- 
pered to  them  to  get  to  the  ground  and  crawl 
close  in  by  the  walls  of  the  P'ort,  following  him. 
They  did  so,  Macavoy  breathing  hard — too  hard; 
for  suddenly  Pierre  clapped  a  hand  on  his  mouth. 
They  were  now  near  the  Fort,  and  Pierre  had 
seen  an  Indian  come  from  the  gate.  The  brave 
was  within  a  few  feet  of  them.  He  had  almost 
passed  them,  for  they  were  in  the  shadow,  but 
Jose  had  burst  a  puff-ball  in  his  hand,  and  the 
dust  flying  up,  made  him  sneeze.  The  Indian 
turned  and  saw  them.  With  a  low  cry  and  the 
spring  of  a  tiger,  Pierre  was  at  his  throat ;  and 
in  another  minute  they  were  struggling  on  the 
ground.  Pierre's  hand  never  let  go.  His  com- 
rades did  not  stir;  he  had  warned  them  to  lie 
still.  They  saw  the  terrible  game  played  out 
within  arm's  length  of  them.  They  heard  Pierre 
say  at  last,  as  the  struggles  of  the  Indian  ceased: 
"Beast!  You  had  Father  Halen's  life.      I  have 


t 


1 


yours, 


>> 


I  ^  I 


i, 

I 


I 


The  Filibuster 


49 


There  was  one  more  wrench  of  the  Indian's 
limbs,  and  then  he  lay  still. 

They  crawled   nearer  the  gate,  still  hidden 
in  the  shadows  and  the  grass.      Presently  they 
came  to  a  clear  space.     Across  this  they  must 
go,  and   enter   the  Fort  before   they  were  dis- 
covered.   They  got  to  their  feet,  and  ran  with 
wonderful  swiftness,  Pierre  leading,  to  the  gate. 
They  had  just  reached  it  when  there  was  a  cry 
from    the  walls,    on    which    two    Indians    were 
sitting.     The  Indians  sprang  down,  seized  their 
spears,  and  lunged  at  the  seven  as  they  entered. 
One  spear  caught  Little  Babiche  in  the  arm  as 
he  swung  aside,  but  with  the  butt  of  his  musket 
Noel  dropped    him.      The    other   Indian   was 
promptly  handled  by  Pierre  himself.      By  this 
time  Corvette  and  Jos^  had  shut  the  gates,  and 
the    Fort  was  theirs— an    easy  conquest.     The 
Indians  were  bound  and  gagged. 

The  adventurers  had  done  it  all  without  draw- 
ing the  attention  of  the  howling  crowd  without. 
The  matter  was  in  its  infancy,  however.  They 
had  the  place,  but  could  they  hold  it  ?  What 
food  and  water  were  there  within?  Perhaps 
they  were  hardly  so  safe  besieged  as  besiegers. 
Yet  there  was  no  doubt  on  Pierre's  part.  He  had 
enjoyed  the  adventure  so  far  up  to  the  hilt— 


v.] 


i 


50 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


I 


j'f^i. 


r ' ' 


:i 


n 
■'1i 


•1: 


III 


in- 


I 


.,)( 

\ 

1- 

ill 

an  old  promise  had  been  kept,  and  an  old 
wrong  avenged. 

"What's  to  be  done  now?"  said  Macavoy. 
"  There  '11  be  hell's  own  racket;  and  they  '11  come 
an  like  a  flood." 

"  To  wait,"  said  Pierre,  "  and  dam  the  flood 
as  it  comes,  ikit  not  a  bullet  till  I  give  the  word. 
Take  to  the  chinks.      We  '11  have  them  soon." 

He  was  right :  they  came  soon.  Someone 
had  found  the  dead  body  of  Young  Eye;  then  it 
was  discovered  that  the  gate  was  shut.  A  big 
shout  went  up.  The  Indians  ran  to  their  lodges 
for  spears  and  hatchets,  though  the  weapons  of 
many  were  within  the  Fort,  and  soon  they  were 
about  the  place,  shouting  in  impotent  rage. 
They  could  not  tell  how  many  invaders  were  in 
the  Fort;  they  suspected  it  was  the  Little  Skins, 
their  ancient  enemies.  But  Young  Eye,  they 
saw,  had  not  been  scalped.  This  was  brought 
to  the  old  chief,  and  he  called  to  his  men  to  fall 
back.  They  had  not  seen  one  man  of  the  invad- 
ers; all  was  silent  and  dark  within  the  Fort;  even 
the  two  torches  which  had  been  burning  above 
the  gate  were  down.  At  that  moment,  as  if  to 
add  to  the  strangeness,  a  caribou  came  suddenly 
through  the  fires,  and,  passing  not  far  from  the 
bewildered  Indians,  plunged  into  the  trees  be- 
hind the  Fort. 


J 


« 


The  Filibuster 


51 


The  caribou  is  credited  with  great  powers.  It 
is  thought  to  understand  all  that  is  said  to  it,  and 
to  be  able  to  take  the  form  of  a  spirit.  No 
Indian  will  come  near  it  till  it  is  dead,  and  he 
who  kills  it  out  of  season  is  supposed  to  bring 
down  all  manner  of  evil. 

So  at  this  sight  they  cried  out — the  women 
falling  to  the  ground  with  their  faces  in  their 
arms — that  the  caribou  had  done  this  thing.  For 
a  moment  they  were  all  afraid.  Besides,  as  a 
brave  showed,  there  was  no  mark  on  the  body  of 
Young  Eye. 

Pierre  knew  quite  wf.ll  that  this  was  a  bull 
caribou,  traveling  wildly  till  he  found  another 
herd.  He  would  carry  on  the  deception.  *' Wail 
for  the  dead,  as  your  women  do  in  Ireland. 
That  will  finish  them,"  he  said  to  Macavoy. 

The  giant  threw  his  voice  up  and  out,  so  that 
it  seemed  to  come  from  over  the  Fort  to  the 
Indians,  weird  and  crying.  Even  the  half-breeds 
standing  by  felt  a  light  shock  of  unnatural  ex- 
citement. The  Indians  without  drew  back  slowly 
from  the  Fort,  leaving  a  clear  space  between. 
Macavoy  had  uncanny  tricks  with  his  voice,  and 
presently  he  changed  the  song  into  a  shrill,  wail- 
ing whistle,  which  went  trembling  about  the 
place  and  then  stopped  suddenly. 

"  Sure,  that 's  a  poor  game,  Pierre,"  he  v/his- 


I 


52 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


'    I 


\A 


.■'J 


pcrcd;"  an'  I 'd  rather  be  pLiggin'  theii  hides 
wid  bullets,  or  givin'  the  double-an'-tvvist.  It 's 
fightin'  I  come  for,  and  not  the  trick  av  Mother 
Kilkevinl" 

Pierre  arranged  a  plan  of  campaign  at  once. 
Every  man  looked  to  his  gun,  the  gates  were 
slowly  opened,  and  Macavoy  stepped  out.  Pierre 
had  thrown  over  the  Irishman's  shoulders  the 
great  skin  of  a  musk-ox  which  he  had  found 
inside  the  stockade.  He  was  a  strange,  immense 
figure,  as  he  walked  into  the  open  space,  and, 
folding  his  arms,  looked  round.  In  the  shadow 
of  the  gate  behind  were  Pierre  and  the  half- 
breeds,  with  guns  cocked. 

Macavoy  had  lived  so  long  in  the  north  that 
he  knew  enough  of  all  the  languages  to  speak  to 
this  tribe.  When  he  came  out  a  murmur  of 
wonder  ran  among  the  Indians.  They  had  never 
seen  anyone  so  tall,  for  they  were  not  great  of 
stature,  and  his  huge  beard  and  wild  shock  of 
hair  were  a  wonderful  sight.  He  remained  silent, 
looking  on  them.  At  last  the  old  chief  spoke. 
"Who  are  you  ?" 

"  I  am  a  great  chief  from  the  Hills  of  the 
Mighty  Men,  come  to  be  your  kir'g,'*  was  his 
reply. 

"  He  is  your  king,"  cried  Pit/re  in  a  strange 


The  Filibuster 


53 


voice  from  the  shadow  of  the  gate,  and  he 
thrust  out  his  gun-barrel,  so  that  they  could 
see  it. 

The  Indians  now  saw  Pierre  and  the  half- 
breeds  in  the  gateway,  and  they  had  not  so  much 
awe.  They  came  a  little  nearer,  and  the  women 
stopped  crying.  A  few  of  the  braves  half  raised 
their  spears.  Seeing  this,  Pierre  instantly  stepped 
forward  to  the  giant.  He  looked  a  child  in  stat- 
ure thereby.  Pie  spoke  quickly  and  well  in  the 
Chinook  language. 

''This  is  a  mighty  man  from  the  Hills  of  the 
Mighty  Men.  He  has  come  to  rule  over  you,  to 
give  all  other  tribes  into  your  hands ;  for  he  has 
strength  like  a  thousand,  and  fears  nothing  of 
gods  nor  men.  I  have  the  blood  of  red  men  in 
me.  It  is  I  who  have  called  this  man  from  his 
distant  home.  I  heard  of  your  fighting  and 
foolishness;  also  that  warriors  were  to  come 
from  the  south  country  to  scatter  your  wives  and 
children,  and  to  make  you  slaves.  I  pitied  you, 
and  I  have  brought  you  a  chief  greater  than  any 
other.  Throw  your  spears  upon  the  ground,  and 
all  will  be  well ;  but  raise  one  to  throw,  or  one 
arrow,  or  axe,  and  there  shall  be  death  among 
you,  so  that  as  a  people  you  shall  die.  The 
spirits  are  with  us.    .    .    .    Well?" 


54 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


!  i 


The  Indians  drew  a  little  nearer,  but  they  did 
not  drop  their  spears,  for  the  old  chief  forbade 
them. 

"We  are  not  dogs  or  cowards,"  he  said, 
"though  the  spirit?,  be  with  you,  as  we  believe. 
We  have  seen  strange  t"hings" — he  pointed  to 
Young  Eye — "and  heard  voices  not  of  men; 
'^.ut  we  would  see  great  things  as  well  as  strange. 
There  are  seven  men  of  the  Little  Skins'  tribe 
within  a  lodge  yonder.  They  were  to  die  when 
our  braves  returned  from  the  hunt,  and  for  that 
we  prepared  the  feast.  But  this  mighty  man,  he 
shall  fight  them  all  at  once,  and  if  he  kills  them 
he  shall  be  our  king.  In  the  name  of  my  tribe 
J  speak.  And  this  other,"  pointing  to  Pierre, 
"he  shall  also  fight  with  a  strong  man  of  our 
tribe,  so  that  we  shall  know  if  you  are  all  brave, 
and  not  as  those  who  crawl  at  the  knees  of  the 
mighty." 

This  was  more  than  Pierre  had  bargained  for. 
Seven  men  at  Macavoy,  and  Indians,  too,  fight- 
ing for  their  lives,  was  a  contract  of  weight.  But 
Macavoy  was  blowing  in  his  beard  cheerfully 
enough. 

"Let  me  choose  me  ground,"  he  said,  "wid 
me  back  to  the  wall,  an'  I  '11  take  thim  as  they 
come." 

Pierre  instantly  interpreted  this  to  the  Indians, 


The  Filibuster 


55 


and  said  for  himself  that  he  would  welcome  their 
strongest  man  at  the  point  of  a  knife  when  he 
chose. 

The  chief  gave  an  order,  and  the  Little  Skins 
were  brought.  The  fires  still  burned  brightly, 
and  the  breathing  of  the  pines,  as  a  slight  wind 
rose  and  stirred  them,  came  softly  over.  The 
Indians  stood  off  at  the  command  of  the  chief. 
Macavoy  drew  back  to  the  wall,  droi)ped  the 
musk-ox  skin  to  the  ground,  and  stripped  him- 
self to  the  waist.  But  in  his  waistband  there  was 
what  none  of  these  Indians  had  ever  seen — a 
small  revolver  that  barked  ever  so  softly.  In  the 
hands  of  each  Little  Skin  there  was  put  a  knife, 
and  they  were  told  their  cheerful  exercise.  They 
came  on  cautiously,  and  then  suddenly  closed 
in,  knives  flashing.  But  Macavoy's  little  bulldog 
barked,  and  one  dropped  to  the  ground.  The 
others  fell  back.  The  wounded  man  drew  up, 
made  a  lunge  at  Macavoy,  but  missed  him.  As 
if  ashamed,  the  other  six  came  on  again  at  a 
spring.  But  again  the  weapon  did  its  work 
smartly,  and  one  more  came  down.  Now  the 
giant  put  it  away,  ran  in  upon  the  five,  and  cut 
right  and  left.  So  sudden  and  massive  was  his 
rush  that  they  had  no  chance.  Three  fell  at  his 
blows,  and  then  he  drew  back  swiftly  to  the  wall. 
"Drop  your  knives,"  he  said,  as  they  cowered, 


M 


S6 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


"or  I  '11  kill  you  all."  They  did  so.  He  dropped 
his  own. 

•'Now  come  an,  yc  scnts !"  he  cried,  and  sud- 
denly he  reached  and  cau^'ht  them,  one  with  each 
arm,  and  wrestled  with  them,  till  he  bent  the  one 
like  a  willow  rod,  and  dropped  him  with  a  broken 
back,  while  the  other  was  at  his  mercy.  Suddenly 
loosing  him,  he  turned  him  toward  the  woods, 
and  said:  "Run,  ye  rid  divil,  run  for  y'r  life!" 

A  dozen  sj)ears  were  raised,  but  the  rifles  of 
Pierre's  men  came  in  between ;  the  Indian 
reached  cover  and  was  gone.  Of  the  six  others, 
two  had  been  killed,  the  rest  were  severely 
wounded,  and  Macavoy  had  not  a  scratch. 

Pierre  smiled  grimly.  "You've  been  doing 
all  the  fighting,  Macavoy,"  he  said. 

"There  's  no  bein*  a  king  for  nothin',"  he  re- 
plied, wiping  blood  from  his  beard. 

"It 's  my  turn  now,  but  keep  your  rifles  ready, 
though  I  think  there  's  no  need." 

Pierre  had  but  a  short  minute  with  the  cham- 
pion, for  he  was  an  expert  with  the  knife.  He 
carried  away  four  fingers  of  the  Indian's  fighting 
hand,  and  that  ended  it ;  for  the  next  instant  the 
point  was  at  the  red  man's  throat.  The  Indian 
stood  to  take  it  like  a  man ;  but  Pierre  loved 
that  kind  of  courage,  and  shot  the  knife  into  its 
sheath  instead. 


f 


The  Filibuster 


S7 


1 


The  old  chief  kept  his  word,  and  after  the 
spears  were  piled,  he  shook  hands  with  Macavoy, 
as  did  his  braves  one  by  one,  and  they  were  all 
moved  by  the  sincerity  of  his  .Ljrasp :  their  arms 
were  useless  for  some  time  after.  They  hailed 
as  their  ruler,  King  Macavoy  I.;  for  men  are  like 
dogs — they  worship  him  who  beats  them.  The 
feasting  and  dancing  went  on  till  the  hunters 
came  back.  Then  there  was  a  wild  scene,  but  in 
the  end  all  the  hunters,  satisfied,  came  to  greet 
their  new  king. 

The  king  himself  went  to  bed  in  the  Fort  that 
night,  Pierre  and  his  bodyguard — by  name  Noel, 
Little  liabirhe,  Corvette,  Jog(5,-  and  Tarfaitc — its 
only  occupants,  singing  joyfully — 

"  Did  yees  iver  hear  tell  o'  Long  Barney, 
That  come  from  the  groves  o'  Killarney  ? 
He  wint  for  a  king,  oh,  he  wint  for  a  king, 
But  he  niver  kcm  back  to  Killarney 
Wid  his  crown,  an'  his  soord,  an'  his  army  !" 

As  a  king  Macavoy  was  a  success,  for  the 
brag  had  gone  from  him.  Like  all  his  race  he 
had  faults  as  a  subject,  but  the  responsibility  of 
ruling  set  him  right.  He  found  in  the  Fort  an 
old  sword  and  belt,  left  by  some  Company's 
man,  and  these  he  furbished  up  and  wore. 

With  Pierre's  aid  he  drew  up  a  simple  con- 
stitution, which  he  carried  in  the  crown  of  his 


*   1 


^^ 


58 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


,     i 


,;V 


il    * 


cap,  and  he  distributed  beads  and  gaudy  trap- 
pings as  marks  of  honour.  Nor  did  he  forget 
the  frequent  pipe  of  peace,  made  possible  to  all 
by  generous  gifts  of  tobacco.  Anyone  can  found 
a  kingdom  abaft  the  Barren  Grounds  with  to- 
bacco, beads,  and  red  flannel. 

For  very  many  weeks  it  was  a  happy  king- 
dom. But  presently  Pierre  yawned,  and  was 
ready  to  return  Three  of  the  half-breeds  were 
inclined  to  go  with  him.  Josd  and  Little  Ba- 
biche  had  formed  alliances  which  held  them 
there — besides,  King  Macavoy  needed  them. 

On  the  eve  of  Pierre's  departure  a  notable 
thing  occurred. 

A  young  brave  had  broken  his  leg  in  hunt- 
ing, had  been  picked  up  by  a  bar.d  of  another 
tribe  and  carried  south.  He  found  himself  at 
last  at  Fort  O'Angel.  There  he  had  met  Mrs. 
Whelan,  and  for  presents  of  tobacco,  and  purple 
and  fine  linen,  he  had  led  her  to  her  consort. 
That  was  how  the  king  and  Pierre  met  her  in  the 
yard  of  Fort  Comfort  one  evening  of  early 
autumn.  Pierre  saw  her  first,  and  was  for  turn- 
ing the  King  about  and  getting  him  away  ;  but 
it  was  too  late.  Mrs.  Whelan  had  seen  him,  and 
she  called  out  at  him: 

"Oh,  Tim  !  me  jool !  me  king !  have  I  found 
ye,  me  imp'ror  ! " 


.1,!j( 


i 


The  Filibuster 


59 


She  ran  at  him,  to  throw  her  arms  round 
him.  He  stepped  back,  the  red  of  his  face 
going  white,  and  said,  stretching  out  his  hand, 
**  Woman,  y*  are  me  wife,  I  know,  whativer  y'  be; 
an*  y've  right  to  have  shelter  and  bread  av  me; 
but  me  arms,  an'  me  bed,  are  me  own  to  kape  or 
to  give;  and  by  God,  ye  shall  have  nayther  one 
nor  the  other!  There  's  a  ditch  as  wide  as  hell 
betune  us!" 

The  Indians  had  gathered  quickly;  they  filled 
the  yard,  and  crowded  the  gate.  The  woman 
went  wild,  for  she  had  been  drinking.  She  ran 
at  Macavoy  and  spat  in  his  face,  and  called  down 
such  a  curse  on  him  as  whoever  hears,  be  he  the 
one  that's  cursed  or  any  other,  shudders  at  till 
he  dies.  Then  she  fell  in  a  fit  at  his  feet.  Mac- 
avoy turned  to  the  Indians,  stretched  out  his 
hands  and  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not.  He 
stooped  down,  picked  up  the  woman,  carried 
her  into  the  Fort,  and  laid  her  on  a  bed  of  skins. 

"What  will  you  do?"  asked  Pierre. 

"  She  is  my  wife,"  he  answered  firmly. 

"She  lived  with  Whelan." 

"  She  must  be  cared  for,"  was  the  reply. 
Pierre  looked  at  him  with  a  curious  quietness. 
"  I  '11  get  liquor  for  her,"  he  said  presently.  He 
started  to  go,  but  turned  and  felt  the  woman's 
pulse.     "You  would  keep  her?"  he  asked. 


j ' 


!li 


ii.\ 


M 

i 

m 

1 

1 

1 

ill 

i 

1  =: 


1 1 

-  if 

.•IV 


it 


I'       ' ' 


<|j     !' 


flVi 


t 


If 


/■  ' 


1    I 


6o 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


"  Bring  the  liquor." 

Macavoy  reached  for  water,  and  dipping  the 
sleeve  of  his  shirt  in  it,  wetted  her  face  gently. 

Pierre  brought  the  liquor,  but  he  knew  that 
the  woman  would  die.  He  stayed  with  Macavcy 
beside  her  all  night.  Toward  morning  her  eyes 
opened  and  she  shivered  greatly. 

"  It 's  bither  cold,"  she  said.  "  You  '11  put 
more  wood  on  the  fire,  Tim,  for  the  babe  must 
be  kipt  warrum." 

She  thought  she  was  at  Malahide. 

"Oh,  wurra,  wurra!  but  'tis  freezin'!"  she 
said  again.  "  Why  d'  ye  kape  the  door  opin 
whin  the  child's  perishin'?" 

Macavoy  sat  looking  at  her,  his  trouble  shak- 
ing him. 

"  I  '11  shut  the  door  meself,  thin,"  she  added; 
"tor  't  was  I  that  lift  it  opin,  Tim."  She  started 
up,  but  gave  a  cry  like  a  wailing  wind,  and  fell 
back. 

"  The  door  is  shut,"  said  Pierre. 

"  But  the  child  !  the  child  !  "  said  Macavoy, 
tears  running  down  his  face  and  beard. 


1 


The  Gift  of  the  Simple  King 

I 

Once  Macavoy,  the  giant,  ruled  a  tribe  of 
Nort'iern  people,  achieving  the  dignity  by  the 
hands  of  Pierre,  who  called  him  King  Macavoy. 
Then  came  a  time  when,  tiring  of  his  kingship, 
he  journeyed  south,  leaving  all  behind,  even  his 
queen,  Wonta,  who,  in  her  bed  of  cypresses  and 
yarrow,  came  forth  no  more  into  the  morning. 
About  Fort  Guidon  they  still  gave  him  his  title, 
and  because  of  his  guilelessness,  sincerity,  and 
generosity,  Pierre  called  him  "The  Simple 
King."  His  seven  feet  and  over  shambled 
about,  suggesting  unjointed  power,  unshackled 
force.  No  one  hated  Macavoy,  many  loved  him, 
he  was  welcome  at  the  fire  and  the  cooking-pot: 
yet  it  seemed  shameful  to  have  so  much  man 
useless — such  an  engine  of  life,  which  might  do 
great  things,  wasting  fuel.  Nobody  thought 
much  of  that  at  Fort  Guidon,  except,  perhaps, 
Pierre,  who  sometimes  said,  "  My  simple  king, 
some  day  you  shall  have  your  great  chance 
again,  but  not  as  a  king — as  a  giant,  a  man." 

6i 


( 


62 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


(I 


^     f! 


\      !; 


The  day  did  not  come  immediately,  but  it 
came. 

When  Ida,  the  deaf  and  dumb  girl,  married 
Hilton,  of  the  H.B.C.,  every  man  at  Fort  Guidon, 
and  some  from  posts  beyond,  sent  her  or  brought 
her  presents  of  one  kind  or  another.  Pierre's 
gift  was  a  Mexican  saddle.  He  was  branding 
Ida's  name  on  it  with  the  broken  blade  of  a  case- 
knife,  when  Macavoy  entered  on  him,  having  just 
returned  from  a  vagabond  visit  to  Fort  Ste.  Anne. 

"  Is  it  digging  out  or  carvin'  in  y'  are?"  he 
asked,  puffing  into  his  beard. 

Pierre  looked  up  contemptuously,  but  did  not 
reply  to  the  insinuation,  for  he  never  saw  an  in- 
sult unless  he  intended  to  avenge  it ;  and  he 
would  not  quarrel  with  Macavoy. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  give?"  he  asked. 

"  Aw,  give  what  to  who,  Hop-o'-me-thumb?" 
Macavoy  said,  stretching  himself  out  in  the  door- 
way, his  legs  in  the  sun,  his  head  in  the  shade. 

"  You  've  been  taking  a  walk  in  the  country, 
then  ?  "  Pierre  asked,  though  he  knew. 

"  To  Fort  Ste.  Anne  :  a  buryin',  two  christ'- 
nin's,  and  a  weddin' ;  an'  lashin's  av  grog  an' 
swill — aw  that,  me  button  o'  the  North! " 

"  Hey  !  What  a  fool  you  are,  my  simple 
king  !  You  've  got  the  things  end  foremost. 
Turn  your  head  to  the  open  air,  for  I  go  to  light 


r-  4i 


h  y 


If1 


) 


ll.|< 

«! 


H:-  i 


The  Gift  of  the  Simple  King  63 

a  cigarette,  and  if  you  breathe  this  way,  there 
will  be  a  grand  explode !  " 

"  Aw,  yer  thumb  in  yer  eye,  Pierre  !     It's  like 
a  baby's,  me  breath  is,  milk  and  honey  it  is— aw 
yis;  an'  Father  Corraine,  that  was  doin'  the  trick 
for  the  love  o'  God,  says  he  to  me,  'Little  Tim 
Macavoy,'— aw  yis,  little  Tim  Macavoy,— says  he, 
*  when  are  you  goin'  to  buckle  to,  for  the  love  av 
God  ! '    says  he.     Ashamed  I  was,  Pierre,  that 
Father  Corraine  should  spake  to  me  like  that,  for 
I  'd  only  a  twig  twisted  at  me  hips  to  kape  me 
trousies  up,  an'  I  tho-ght  'twas  that  he  had  in 
his  eye  !     '  Buckle  to,'  says  I,  *  Father  Corraine? 
Buckle  to,  yer  riv'rince  ! '— feelin'  I  was  at  the 
twigs  the  while.     *  Ay,  little  Tim  Macavoy,'  he 
says,   says  he,  'you  've  bin  atin'   the  husks  av 
idleness  long  enough  ;  when  are  you  goin'  to 
buckle  to  ?     You  had  a  kingdom  and  ye  guv  it 
up,'  says  he;  'take  a  field,  get  a  plough,  and 
buckle  to,'  says  he,  '  an'  turn  back  no  more  !'— 
like  that,  says  Father  Corraine ;  and  I  thinkin' 
all  the  time  'twas  the  want  o'  me  belt  he  was 
drivin'  at  !  " 

Pierre  looked  at  him  a  moment  idly,  then 
said:  "Such  a  tom-fool  !  And  where's  that 
grand  leather  belt  of  yours,  eh,  my  monarch  ?  " 

A  laugh  shook  through  Macavoy's  beard. 
"  For  the  weddin'  it  wint  :  buckled  the  two  up 


1  \ 


'  '*•-"-■.» 


i;  I 


64 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


wid  it  for  better  or  worse — an'  purty  they  looked, 
they  did,  standin'  there  in  me  cinch,  an'  one  hole 
lift — aw  yis,  Pierre  !  " 

"  And  what  do  you  give  to  Ida  ? "  Pierre 
asked,  with  a  little  emphasis  of  the  branding-iron. 

Macavoy  got  to  his  feet.  "Ida!  Ida!"  said 
he.  "  Is  that  saddle  for  Ida  ?  Is  it  her  and 
Hilton  that's  to  ate  aff  one  dish  togither  ?  That 
rose  o*  the  valley,  that  bird  wid  a  song  in  her 
face  and  none  an  her  tongue  !  That  daisy  dot 
av  a  thing,  steppin*  through  the  world  like  a 
sprig  o'  glory  !  Aw,  Pierre,  thim  two  ! — an  I  've 
divil  a  scrap  to  give,  good  or  bad.  I  've  nothin* 
at  all  in  the  wide  wurruld  but  the  clothes  on  me 
back,  an'  thim  hangin'  on  the  underbrush  !  " 
— giving  a  little  twist  to  the  twigs.  "  An'  many 
a  meal  an'  many  a  dipper  o'  drink  she'  s  guv  me, 
little  smiles  dancin'  at  her  lips." 

He  sat  down  in  the  doorway  again,  with  his 
face  turned  toward  Pierre,  and  the  back  of  his 
head  in  the  sun.  He  was  a  picture  of  perfect 
health,  sumptuous,  huge,  a  bull  in  beauty,  the 
heart  of  a  child  looking  out  of  his  eyes,  but  a 
sort  of  despair,  too,  in  his  bearing. 

Pierre  watched  him  with  a  furtive  humour  for 
a  time,  then  he  said  languidly  ;  "  Never  mind 
your  clothes,  give  yourself.  " 

"  Yer  tongue  in  yer  cheek,  me  spot  o'  vinegar. 


V-'  J 


The  Gift  of  the  Simple  King 


(55 


his 
lis 
ect 
he 
It  a 


Give  mcself  !  What's  that  for?  A  piirty  wcd- 
din'  gift,  says  I  !  Handy  thing  to  have  in  the 
house  !  Use  me  for  a  clothes-horse,  or  shtand 
me  in  the  garden  for  a  fairy  bovver  ! — aw  yis,  wid 
a  hole  in  me  face  that  'd  ate  thim  out  o'  house 
and  home  ! " 

Pierre  drew  a  piece  of  brown  paper  toward 
him,  and  wrote  on  it  with  a  burnt  match.  Pres- 
ently he  held  it  up.  "  Voila,  my  simple  king,  the 
thing  for  you  to  do :  a  grand  gift,  and  to  cost 
you  nothing  now.  Come,  read  it  out;,  and  tell 
me  what  you  think." 

Macavoy  took  the  paper,  and  in  a  large,  judi- 
cial way,  read  slowly: 

"  On  demand,  for  value  received,  I  promise  to 
pay  to  .  .  IDA  HILTON,  .  .  or  order, 
mese/f,  Tim  Macavoy,  standin^  seven  foot  three  on 
77ie  barefut,  wid  interest  at  nothin^  at  all.^* 

Macavoy  ended  with  a  loud  smack  of  the  lips. 
"McGuirel"  he  said,  and  nothing  more. 

McGiiire  was  his  strongest  expression.  In 
the  most  important  moments  of  his  career  he  had 
said  it,  and  it  sounded  deep,  strange  and  more 
powerful  than  many  usual  oaths.  A  moment 
later  he  said  again,  "  McGuire  !  "  Then  he 
read  the  paper  once  more  out  loud.  **  What's 
that,  me  Frenchman  ?  "  he  said.  -  "  What  Ballze- 
boob's  tricks  are  y'  at  now  ?  " 


66 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


m 


K'-     i( 


I!- 1  ' 


Pierre  was  coiiiplarently  eyeing  liis  lianrli- 
wurk  on  the  saddle.  He  now  settled  back  witli 
his  shoulders  to  the  wall,  and  said:  "Sec,  then, 
it 's  a  little  promissory  note  for  a  wedding-gift  to 
Ida.  When  she  says  some  day,  *  Tim  Macavoy. 
I  want  you  to  do  this  or  that,  or  to  go  here  or 
there,  or  to  sell  you  or  trade  you,  or  use  you  for 
a  clr  hes-1''^  'se  or  a  biidge  over  a  canyon,  or  to 
noid  .  ;'  ;.  'lOu^t,  or  blow  oul  a  prairie-fire,  or  be 
m;  secrwd  liisband,'  you  shall  say,  *  Here  lam'; 
and  you  shall  i  vel  from  Heaven  to  Halifax,  but 
you  shall  come  at  the  call  of  this  promissory  1  " 

Pierre's  teeth  glistened  behind  a  smile  as  he 
spoke,  and  Macavoy  broke  into  a  roar  of  laugh- 
ter. "Black  's  the  white  o'  yer  eye,"  he  said  at 
last,  "an'  a  joke's  a  joke.  Seven  fut  three  I 
am,  an'  sound  av  wind  an'  limb — an'  a  weddin'- 
gift  to  that  swate  ror,e  o'  the  valley!  Aisy,  aisy, 
Pierre.  A  bit  o'  foolin'  'twas  ye  put  on  the 
paper,  but  truth  l  'U  make  it,  me  cock  o'  the 
walk !  That 's  me  gift  to  her  an'  Hilton,  an'  no 
other.  An'  a  dab  wid  red  wax  it  shall  have,  an* 
what  more  be  the  word  o'  Freddy  Tarlton  the 
lawyer." 

"You're  a  great  man,"  said  Pierre,  with  a 
touch  of  gentle  irony,  for  his  natural  malice  had 
no  play  against  the  huge  ex-king  of  his  own 
making.     With  these  big  creatures — he  had  con- 


The  Gift  of  the  Simple  King 


6f 


nived  with  several  in  his  lime— he  had  ever  ])cci\ 
superior,  protective,  making  them  to  feci  that 
they  were  as  children  beside  him.  He  looked  at 
Macavoy  musingly,  and  said  to  himself,  "Well, 
why  not?  If  i*:  is  a  joke,  then  it  is  a  joke;  if  it 
is  a  thing  to  mnke  the  world  stand  still  for  a 
minute  some  time,  so  much  the  better.  He  is  all 
vvaste  now.  By  the  holy,  he  shall  do  it.  It  is 
amusing,  and  it  may  be  great  bye  and  bye." 

Presently  Pierre  said  aloud  :  "Well,  my  Mac- 
avoy, what  will  you  do  ?    Send  this  good  gift  ?" 

"Aw  y is,  Pierre;  I  shtand  by  that  «: /^">i  the 
crown  av  me  head  to  the  sole  av  Me  f'  sure. 
Face  like  a  mornin'  in  May,  and  hi'ic.  like  the 
tunes  of  an  organ,  she  has.  Spakes  '-j.  a  look 
av  her  eye  and  a  twist  av  her  purl'  lips  an'  sway- 
ing body,  an'  talkin'  to  you  widout  a  word.  Aw 
motion — motion — motion  ;  yis,  that 's  it.  An' 
I  've  seen  her  an  tap  af  a  hill  wid  the  wind  blow- 
in'  her  hair  free,  and  the  yellow  buds  on  the 
tree,  and  the  grass  green  beneath  her  feet,  the 
world  smilin'  betune  her  and  the  sun  :  pictures 
— pictures,  aw  yis !  Promissory  notice  on  de- 
mand is  at  anny  toime  ?  Seven  fut  three  on  me 
bare  toes — butj  Father  o'  Sin  !  when  she  calls  I 
come,  yis." 

"On  your  oath,  Macavoy?"  asked  Pierre; 
"by  the  book  of  the  Mass  ?" 


1 


V, 


I' 


■I  I 


*     I 


I  if 


■1' 


68 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


Macavoy  stood  up  straight  till  his  head 
scraped  the  cobwebs  between  the  rafters,  the  wild 
indignation  of  a  child  in  his  eye.  "D*  ye  think 
I  'hi  a  thafe,  to  stale  me  own  word  ?  Hut  1  I  '11 
break  ye  in  two,  ye  wisp  o'  straw,  if  ye  doubt  me 
word  to  a  lady.  There  's  me  note  av  hand,  and 
ye  shall  have  me  fist  on  it,  in  writin'  at  Freddy 
Tarlton's  office,  wid  a  blotch  av  red  and  the 
queen's  head  at  the  bottom.  McGuirc/"  he  said 
again,  and  paused,  puffing  his  lips  through  his 
beard. 

Pierre  looked  at  him  a  moment,  then  waving 
his  fmgers  idly,  said,  "So,  my  straw-breaker  1 
Then  to-morro  v  morning  at  ten  you  will  fetch 
your  wedding-gift.  But  come  so  soon  now  to 
M'sieu'  Tarlton's  office,  and  we  will  have  it  all 
as  you  say,  with  the  red  seal  and  the  turn  of  your 
fist — yes.  Well,  well,  we  travel  far  in  the  world, 
and  sometimes  we  see  strange  things,  and  no 
two  strange  things  are  alike — no ;  there  is  only 
one  Macavoy  in  the  world,  there  was  only  one 
Shon  M'Gann.  Shon  M'Gann  was  a  fine  fool, 
but  he  did  something  at  last,  truly  yes :  Tim 
Macavoy,  perhaps,  will  do  something  at  last  on 
his  own  hook.     Hey,  I  wonder  !" 

He  felt  the  muscles  of  Macavoy's  arm  mus- 
ingly, and  then  laughed  up  in  the  giant's  face. 
"Once  I  made  you  a  king,  my  own,  and  you 


The  Gifr  of  the  Simple  King 


69 


im 
on 


threw  it  all  away;  now  I  make  you  a  slave,  and 
wc  shall  sec  what  yuu  will  do.  Come  along,  for 
M'sicu'  Tarlton." 

Macavoy  dropped  a  heavy  hand  on  Pierre's 
shoulder. 

"'T  is  hard  to  be  a  king,  Pierre,  but  *t  is  aisy 
to  be  a  slave  for  the  likes  o'  her.  I  'd  kiss  her 
dirty  shoe  sure  1" 

As  they  passed  through  the  door,  Pierre  said, 
"Z^/j-  donCj  perhaps,  when  all  is  done,  she  will 
sell  you  for  old  bones  and  rags.  Then  I  will 
buy  you,  and  I  will  burn  your  bones  and  the 
rags,  and  I  will  scatter  to  the  four  winds  of  the 
earth  the  ashes  of  a  king,  a  slave,  a  fool,  and  an 
Irishman, — truly! " 

"Bedad,  ye  '11  have  more  earth  in  yer  hands 
then,  Pierre,  than  ye  'II  ever  earn,  and  more 
heaven  than  ye  '11  ever  shtand  in." 

Half  an  hour  later  they  were  in  Freddy  Tarl- 
ton's  office  on  the  banks  of  the  Little  Big  Swan, 
which  tumbled  past,  swelled  by  the  first  rain  of 
the  early  autumn.  Freddy  Tnrlton,  who  had  a 
gift  of  humour,  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the 
thing  and  treated  it  seriously;  but  in  vain  did 
he  protest  that  the  large  red  seal  with  Her 
Majesty's  head  on  it  was  unnecessary;  Macavoy 
insisted,  and  wrote  his  name  across  it  with  a 
large  indistinctness  worthy  of  a  king.     Before 


I 


70 


An  Adventurer  of  the  Ni*rth 


the  nii^ht  was  over  everybody  al  Guidon  Hill, 
save  Hilton  and  Ida  herself,  knew  wluit  gift 
would  come  from  Macavoy  to  the  wedded  pair. 


(I 


lit  I 


W'  .) 


•^   ■<: 


II 

The  next  morning  was  almost  painfully  beau- 
tiful, so  delicate  in  its  clearness,  so  exalted  by 
the  glory  of  the  hills,  so  grand  in  the  linitless 
stretch  of  the  gr'?cn-brown  prairie  north  and 
south.  It  was  a  day  for  God's  creatures  to  meet 
in,  and  speed  away,  and  having  flown  round  the 
boundaries  of  that  spacious  domain,  to  return 
again  to  the  nest  of  home  on  the  large  plateau 
between  the  sea  and  the  stars.  Gathered  about 
Ida's  home  was  everybody  who  lived  within  a 
radius  of  a  hundred  miles.  In  the  large  front 
room  all  the  presents  were  set : — rich  furs  from 
the  far  north,  cunningly  carved  bowls,  rocking- 
chairs  made  by  hand,  knives,  cooking  utensils,  a 
copy  of  Shakespeare  in  six  volumes  from  the 
Protestant  missionary  who  performed  the  cere- 
mony, a  nugget  of  gold  from  the  Long  Light 
River,  and  outside  the  door,  a  horse,  Hilton's 
own  present  to  his  wife,  on  which  was  put 
Pierre's  saddle,  with  its  silver  mounting  and 
Ida's  name  branded  deep  on  pommel  and  strap. 
When  Macavoy  arrived,  a  cheer  went  up,  which 


*/J  '  ) 


The  Gift  oF  the  Simple  King 


71 


Wiis  carried  on  waves  of  laughter  into  tlic  house 
to  Ililloii  and  Ida,  \\\n)  cvi-ii  llion  were  listening 
to  the  first  words  of  the  brief  service  which  be- 
gins, **  /  c/iar:,^c  you  both  if  you  do  know  any  just 
cause  or  imf^cdimcnt — "  and  so  on. 

They  did  not  turn  to  see  what  it  was,  for  just 
at  that  moment  they  themselves  were  the  very 
centre  of  the  universe.  Ida  being  deaf  and 
dumb,  it  was  necessary  to  interpret  to  her  the 
words  of  the  service  by  signs,  as  the  missionary 
read  it,  and  this  was  done  by  Pierre  himself,  the 
half-breed  Catholic,  the  man  who  had  brought 
Hilton  and  Ida  together,  for  he  and  Ida  had 
been  old  friends.  After  Father  Corraine  had 
taught  her  the  language  of  signs,  Pierre  had 
learned  them  from  her,  until  at  last  his  gestures 
had  become  as  vital  as  her  own.  The  delicate 
precision  of  his  every  movement,  the  suggestive- 
ness  of  look  and  motion  were  suited  to  a  lan- 
guage which  was  nearer  to  the  instincts  of  his 
own  nature  than  word  of  mouth.  All  men  did 
not  trust  Pierre,  but  all  women  did  ;  with  those 
he  had  a  touch  of  Machiavelli,  with  these  he 
had  no  sign  of  Mephistopheles,  and  few  were 
the  occasions  in  his  life  when  he  showed  out- 
ward tenderness  to  either:  which  was  equally 
effective.  He  had  learnt,  or  knew  by  instinct, 
that  exclusiveness  as  to  men,  and  indifference  as 


72 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


h       ':' 


• 


to  \vom:?n,  arc  th*^  greatest  influences  on  both. 
As  he  stood  there,  slowly  interpreting  to  Ida,  by 
graceful  allusive  signs,  the  words  of  the  service, 
one  could  not  think  that  behind  his  impassive 
face  there  was  any  feeling  for  the  man  or  for  the 
woman.  He  had  that  disdainful  smile  which 
men  acquire,  who  are  all  their  lives  aloof  from 
the  hopes  of  the  hearthstone,  and  acknowledge 
no  laws  but  their  own. 

More  than  once  the  eyes  of  the  girl  nlled 
with  tears,  as  the  pregnancy  of  some  phrase  in 
the  service  came  home  to  her.  Her  face  re- 
sponded to  Pierre's  gestures,  as  do  one's  nerves 
to  the  delights  of  good  music,  and  there  was 
something  so  unique,  so  impressive  in  the  cere- 
mony, that  the  laughter  which  had  greeted 
Macavoy  passed  away,  and  a  dead  silence,  begin- 
ning from  where  the  two  stood,  crept  out  until 
it  covered  all  the  prairie.  Nothing  was  heard  ex- 
cept Hilton's  voice  in  strong  tones  saying,  "  / 
ifa^e  thee  to  be  my  wedded  wifcy^  etc.,  but  when 
the  last  words  of  the  service  were  said,  and 
the  new-made  bride  turned  to  her  husband's 
embrace,  and  a  little  sound  of  joy  broke  from 
her  lips,  there  was  plenty  of  noise  and  laughter 
again,  for  Macavoy  stood  in  the  doorway,  or 
rather  outside  it,  stooping  to  look  in  upon  the 
scene.     Someone  had  lent  him  the  cinch  of  a 


t 


\\^  I 


The  Gift  of  the  Simple  King 


73 


broncho,  and  he  had  belted  himself  with  it,  no 
longer  carrying  his  clothes  about  "  an  tlie  under- 
brush." Hilton  laughed  and  stretched  out  his 
hand.  "  Come  in,  King,"  he  said,  "come  and 
wish  us  joy." 

Macavoy  parted  the  crowd  easily,  forcing  his 
way,  and  instantly  was  stooping  before  the  pair 
— for  he  could  not  stand  upright  in  the  room. 

"Aw,  now,  Hilton,  is  it  you,  is  it  you,  that's 
pluckin*  the  roses  av  the  valley,  snatchin'  the 
stars  out  av  the  sky!  aw,  Hilton,  the  like  o'  that  I 
Travel  down  I  did  yistiday  from  Fort  Ste. 
Anne,  and  divil  a  word  I  knew  till  Pierre  hit  me 
in  the  eye  wid  it  last  night — and  no  time  for  a 
present,  for  a  wedding  gift — no,  aw  no  !  " 

Just  here  Ida  reached  up  and  touched  him  on 
the  shoulder.  He  smiled  down  on  her,  puffing 
and  blowing  in  his  beard,  bursting  to  speak  to 
her,  yet  knowing  no  word  by  signs  to  say ;  but 
he  nodded  his  head  at  her,  and  he  patted  Hil- 
ton's shoulder,  and  he  took  their  hands  and 
joined  them  together,  her's  on  top  of  Hilton's, 
and  shook  them  in  one  of  his  own  till  she  almost 
winced.  Presently,  with  a  look  at  Hilton,  who 
nodded  in  reply,  Ida  lifted  her  cheek  to  Macavoy 
to  kiss — Macavoy,  the  idle,  ill-cared-for,  boister- 
ous giant.  His  face  became  red  like  that  of  a 
child  caught  in  an  awkward  act,  and  with  an  ab- 


it 


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'V' 


74 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


ti    h 


surd  shyness  he  stooped  and  touched  her  cheek. 
Then  he  turned  to  Hilton,  and  blurted  out, 
"  Aw,  the  rose  o'  the  valley,  the  pride  o'  the  wide 
wurruld  !  aw  the  bloom  o'  the  hills  !  I  'd  have 
kissed  her  dirty  shoe.     McGuire  !  " 

A  burst  of  laughter  rolled  out  on  the  clear 
air  of  the  prairie,  and  the  hills  seemed  to  stir 
with  the  pleasure  of  life.  Then  it  was  that  Mac- 
avoy,  following  Hilton  and  Ida  outside,  suddenly 
stopped  beside  the  horse,  drew  from  his  pocket 
the  promissory  note  that  Pierre  had  written,  and 
saidj  "  Yis,  but  all  the  weddm  -gifts  are  n't  in. 
'Tis  nothin'  I  had  to  give — divil  a  cint  in  the 
wurruld,  divil  a  pound  av  baccy,  or  a  pot  for  the 
fire,  or  a  bit  av  linin  for  the  table  ;  nothin'  but 
meself  an  me  dirty  clothes,  standin'  seven  feet 
three  an  me  bare  toes.  What  was  I  to  do  ? 
There  was  only  meself  to  give,  so  I  give  it  free 
and  hearty,  and  here  it  is  wid  the  Queen's  head 
an  it,  done  in  Mr.  Tarlton's  office.  Ye'd  better 
have  had  a  dog,  or  a  gun,  or  a  ladder,  or  a  horse, 
or  a  saddle,  or  a  quart  of  brown  brandy ;  but 
such  as  it  is  I  give  it  ye — I  give  it  to  the  rose  o* 
the  valley  and  the  star  o'  the  wide  wurruld." 

In  a  loud  voice  he  read  the  promissory  note, 
and  handed  it  to  Ida.  Men  laughed  till  there 
were  tears  in  their  eyes,  and  a  keg  of  whisky  was 
opened  ;  but  somehow  Ida  did  not  laugh.     She 


1^  1 1 


The  Gift  of  the  Simple  King 


75 


and  Pierre  had  seen  a  serious  side  to  Macavoy's 
gifL  :  the  childlike  manliness  in  it.  It  went 
home  lo  her  woman's  heart  without  a  touch  of 
ludicrousness,  without  a  sound  of  laughter. 

Ill 

After  a  time  the  interest  m  this  wedding-gift 
declined  at  Fort  Guidon,  and  but  three  people 
remembered  it  with  any  singular  distinctness 
— Ida,  Pierre  and  Macavoy.  Pierre  was  inter- 
ested, for  in  his  primitive  mind  he  knew  that, 
however  wild  a  promise,  life  is  so  wild  in  its 
events,  there  comes  the  hour  for  redemption  of 
all  I.O.U.'s. 

Meanwhile,  weeks,  months,  and  even  a  couple 
of  years  passed,  Macavoy  and  Pierre  coming  and 
going,  sometimes  together,  sometimes  not,  in  all 
manner  of  words  at  war,  in  all  manner  of  fact  at 
peace.  And  Ida,  out  of  the  bounty  of  her  na- 
ture, gave  the  two  vagabonds  a  place  at  her  fire- 
side whenever  they  chose  to  come.  Perhaps, 
wliere  speech  was  not  given,  a  gift  of  divination 
entered  into  her  instead,  and  she  valued  what 
others  found  useless,  and  held  aloof  from  what 
others  found  good.  She  had  powers  which  had 
ever  been  the  admiration  of  Guidon  Hill.  Birds 
and  animals  were  her  friends — she  called  them 


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An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


her  kinsmen.  A  peculiar  sympathy  joined  them  ; 
so  that  wlien,  at  last,  she  tamed  a  white  wild 
duck,  and  made  it  do  the  duties  of  a  carrier- 
pigeon,  no  one  thought  it  strange. 

Up  in  the  hills,  beside  the  White  Sun  River, 
lived  her  sister  and  her  sister's  children  ;  and,  by 
and  by,  the  duck  carried  messages  back  and 
forth,  so  that  when,  in  the  winter,  Ida's  health 
became  delicate,  she  had  comfort  in  the  solicitude 
and  cheerfulness  of  her  sister,  and  the  gaiety  of 
the  young  birds  of  her  nest,  who  sent  Ida  many 
a  sprightly  message  and  tales  of  their  good  va- 
grancy in  the  hills.  In  these  days  Pierre  and 
Macavoy  were  little  at  the  Post,  save  now  and 
then  to  sit  with  Hilton  beside  the  fire,  waiting 
for  spring  and  telling  tales.  Upon  Hilton  had 
settled  that  peaceful,  abstracted  expectancy  which 
shows  man  at  his  best,  as  he  waits  for  the  time 
when,  through  the  half-lights  of  his  fatherhood, 
he  shall  see  the  broad  fine  dawn  of  motherhood 
spreading  up  the  world — which,  all  being  said 
and  done,  is  that  place  called  Home.  Some- 
thing gentle  came  over  him  while  he  grew 
stouter  in  body  and  in  ail  other  ways  made  a 
larger  figure  among  the  people  of  the  West. 

As  Pierre  said,  whose  wisdom  was  more  to  be 
trusted  than  his  general  morality,  "it  is  strange 
that  most  men  think  not  enough  of  themselves 


i 


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The  Gift  of  the  Simple  King  ']'j 

till  a  woman  shows  them  how.  But  it  is  the 
great  wonder  that  the  woman  does  not  despise 
him  for  it.  Qu:l  caracterc  !  She  has  so  often 
to  show  him  his  way  like  a  babe,  and  yet  she  says 
to  him,  Mo>i  i^rand  hommc !  my  master  !  my 
lord  !  Pshaw  !  I  have  often  thought  that  women 
are  half  saints,  half  fools,  and  men  half  fools, 
half  rogues.  But,  quelle  vie  ! — what  life  !  with- 
out a  woman  you  are  half  a  man  ;  with  one  you 
are  bound  to  a  single  spot  in  the  world,  you  are 
tied  by  the  leg,  your  wing  is  clipped — you  can- 
not have  all.     Quelle  vie  I — what  life  !  " 

To  this  Macavoy  said  :  "Spit-spat !  But  what 
the  devil  good  does  all  yer  thinkin'  do  ye, 
Pierre  ?  It 's  argufy  here  and  argufy  there,  an' 
while  yer  at  that,  me  an'  the  rest  av  us  is  squeez- 
in'  the  fun  out  o'  life.  Aw,  go  'long  wid  ye. 
Y'  are  only  a  bit  o'  hell  an'  grammar,  annyway. 
Wid  all  yer  cuttin'  and  carvin'  things  to  see  the 
internals  av  thim,  I  'd  do  more  to  the  call  av  a 
woman's  finger  than  for  all  the  logic  and  know- 
alogy  y'  ever  chewed — an'  there  y'  are,  me  little 
tailor  o'  jur'sprudince  !  " 

"To  the  finger  call  of  Hilton's  wife,  '  h?" 

Macavoy  was  not  quite  sure  what      ierre's 

enigmatical  tone  meant.     A  wild  light     none  in 

his  eyes,  and  his  tongue  blundered  out:  "Yis, 

Hilton's  wife's  finger,  or  a  look  av  licr  eye,  or 


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An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


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nothin'  at  all.  Aisy,  aisy,  ye  wasp  1  ye  'd  l(0 
stalkin'  divils  in  hell  for  her  yerself,  so  yc 
would.  But  the  tongue  av  ye — hut,  it 's  gall  to 
the  tip!" 

"Maybe,  my  king.  But  I  'd  go  hunting  be- 
cause I  wanted ;  you  because  you  must.  You  're 
a  slave  to  come  and  to  go,  with  a  Queen's  seal 
on  the  promissory." 

Macavoy  leaned  back  and  roared.  "Aw,  that ! 
The  rose  o'  the  valley!  the  joy  o*  the  wurrld  I 
S't,  Pierre — "  his  voice  grew  softer  on  a  sudden, 
as  a  fresh  thought  came  to  him — "did  y'  ever 
think  that  the  child  might  be  dumb  like  the 
mother?" 

I'his  was  a  day  in  the  early  spring,  when  the 
snows  were  melting  in  the  hills,  and  freshets 
were  sweeping  down  the  valleys  far  and  near. 
That  night  a  warm  heavy  rain  came  on,  and  in 
the  morning  every  stream  and  river  was  swollen 
to  twice  its  size.  The  mountains  seemed  to  have 
stripped  themselves  of  snow,  and  the  vivid  sun 
beiran  at  once  to  color  the  foothills  with  irreen. 
As  PLrre  and  Macavoy  stood  at  their  door,  look- 
ing out  upon  the  earth  cleansing  itself,  Macavoy 
suddenly  said:  "Aw,  look,  look,  Pierre — her 
white  duck  aff  to  the  nest  on  Champak  Hill !" 

They  both  shaded  their  eyes  with  their  hands. 
Circling  round  two  or  three   times   above   the 


-i*' 


The  Gift  of  the  Simple  King 


79 


go 


Post,  the  duck  then  stretched  out  its  neck  to  tlic 
west,  and  floated  away  beyond  (Jiiidon  Hill,  and 
was  hid  from  view.  Pierre,  without  a  word,  be- 
gan cleaning  his  rifle,  while  Macavoy  smoked, 
and  sat  looking  into  the  distance,  surveying  tlic 
sweet  warmth  and  light.  His  face  blossomed 
with  colour,  and  the  look  of  his  eyes  was  like 
that  of  an  irresponsible  child.  Once  or  twice 
he  smiled  and  puffed  in  his  beard,  but  perhaps 
that  was  involuntary,  or  was,  maybe,  a  vague 
reflection  of  his  dreams,  themselves  most  vague, 
for  he  was  only  soaking  in  sun  and  air  and  life. 

WiLhin  an  hour  they  saw  the  wild  duck  again 
passing  tne  crest  of  Guidon,  and  they  watched 
it  sailing  down  to  the  Post,  Pierre  idly  fondling 
the  gun,  Macavoy  half  roused  from  his  dreams. 
But  presently  they  were  altogf^^^^er  roused,  the 
gun  was  put  away,  and  both  wei  on  their  feet; 
for  after  the  pigeon  arrived  there  was  a  stir  at 
the  Post,  and  Hilton  could  be  seen  running 
from  the  store  to  his  house,  not  far  away. 

"  Something  's  wrong  there,"  said  Pierre. 

"D'ye  think  'twas  the  duck  brought  it?" 
asked  Macavoy. 

Without  a  word  Pierre  started  away  toward 
the  Post,  Macavoy  following.  As  they  did  so,  a 
half-breed  boy  came  from  the  house,  hurrying 
toward  them. 


j 


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An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


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Inside  the  house  Hilton's  wife  Liy  on  lier 
bed,  her  great  hour  coming  on  before  tlie  tiUiC, 
because  of  ill  news  from  beyond  the  (iuidon. 
There  was  with  her  an  old  Frenchwoman,  who 
herself,  in  her  time,  had  brought  many  children 
into  the  world,  whose  heart  brooded  tenderly,  if 
uncouthly,  over  the  dumb  girl.  She  it  was  who 
had  handed  to  Hilton  the  paper  the  wild  duck 
had  brought,  after  Ida  had  read  it  and  fallen  in 
a  faint  on  the  floor. 

The  message  that  had  felled  the  young  wife 
was  brief  and  awful.  A  cloud-burst  had  fallen 
on  Champak  Hill,  had  torn  part  of  it  away,  and 
a  part  of  this  part  had  swept  down  into  the  path 
that  led  to  the  little  house,  having  been  stopped 
by  some  falling  trees  and  a  great  boulder.  It 
blocked  the  only  way  to  escape  above,  and 
beneath,  the  river  was  creeping  up  to  sweep 
away  the  little  house.  So,  there  the  mother  and 
her  children  waited  (the  father  was  in  the  farthest 
north),  facing  death  below  and  above.  The  wild 
duck  had  carried  the  tale  in  its  terrible  simplic- 
ity. The  last  words  were,  "  There  may  n't  be 
any  help  for  me  and  my  sweet  chicks,  but  I  am 
still  hoping,  and  you  must  send  a  man  or  many. 
But  send  soon,  for  we  are  cut  off,  and  the  end 
may  come  any  hour." 

Macavoy  and  Pierre  were  socn  at  the  Post, 


The  Gift  of  the  Simple  King 


8i 


and  knew  from  Hilton  all  there  was  to  know. 
At  once  Pierre  began  to  gather  men,  though 
what  one  or  many  could  do  none  could  say. 
Eight  white  men  and  three  Indians  watched  the 
wild  duck  sailing  away  again  from  the  bedroom 
window  where  Ida  lay,  to  carry  a  word  of  com- 
fort to  Champak  Hill.  Before  it  went,  Ida 
asked  for  Macavoy,  and  lie  was  brought  to  her 
bedroom  by  Hilton.  He  saw  a  })ale,  almost  un- 
earthly, yet  beautiful  face,  flushing  and  paling 
with  a  coming  agony,  looking  up  at  him;  and 
presently  two  trembling  hands  made  those  mys- 
tic signs  which  are  the  primal  language  of  the 
soul.  Hilton  interpreted  to  him  this  :  "  I  have 
sent  for  you.  There  is  no  man  so  big  or  strong 
as  you  in  the  north.  I  did  not  know  that  I 
should  ever  ask  you  to  redeem  the  note.  I  want 
my  gift,  and  I  will  give  you  your  })aper  with  the 
Queen's  head  on  it.  Those  little  lives,  those 
pretty  little  dears,  you  will  not  see  them  die.  If 
there  is  a  way,  any  way,  you  will  save  them. 
Sometimes  one  man  can  do  what  twenty  cannot. 
You  were  my  wedding-gift :  I  claim  you  now." 
She  paused,  and  then  motioned  to  the  nurse, 
who  laid  the  piece  of  brown  paper  in  Macavoy's 
hand.  He  held  it  for  a  moment  as  delicately  as 
if  it  were  a  fragile  bit  of  glass,  something  that 
his  huge  fingers  might  crush  by  touching.    Then 


Hi 


III 


82 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


he  reached  over  and  laid  it  on  the  bed  beside 
her  and  said,  looking  Milton  in  the  eyes,  "Tell 
her,  the  slip  av  a  saint  she  is!  if  the  breakin'  av 
nie  bones,  or  the  lettin'  av  iiic  l)lood  's  what  '11 
set  all  right  at  Chanipak  Hill,  let  her  mind  be 
aisy — aw  yis!" 

Soon  afterward  they  were  all  on  their  way  — 
all  save  Hilton,  whose  duty  was  beside  this  other 
danger,  for  the  old  nurse  said  thai,  "like  as 
not,"  her  life  would  hang  upon  the  news  from 
Champak  Hill;  and  if  ill  came,  his  place  was 
beside  the  speechless  traveler  on  the  Brink. 

In  a  few  hours  the  rescuers  stood  on  the  top 
of  Champak  Hill,  looking  down.  There  stood 
the  little  house,  as  it  were,  between  two  dooms. 
Even  Pierre's  face  became  drawn  and  pale  as  he 
saw  what  a  very  few  hours  or  minutes  might  do. 
Macavoy  had  spoken  no  word,  had  answered  no 
question  since  they  had  left  the  Post.  There 
was  in  his  eyes  the  large  seriousness,  the  intent- 
ness  which  might  be  found  in  the  face  of  a  brave 
boy,  who  had  not  learned  fear,  and  yet  saw  a 
vast  ditch  of  danger  at  which  he  must  leap. 
There  was  ever  before  him  the  face  of  the  dumb 
wife;  there  was  in  his  ears  the  sound  of  pain 
that  had  followed  him  from  Hilton's  house  out 
into  the  brilliant  day. 

The  men  stood  helpless,  and  looked  at  each 


The  Gift  of  the  Simple  King 


83 


other.  They  could  not  say  to  the  river  that  it 
must  rise  no  farther,  and  they  could  not  go  to 
the  house,  nor  let  a  rope  down,  and  there  was 
the  crumbled  moiety  of  the  hill  which  blocked 
the  way  to  the  house :  elsewhere  it  was  sheer 
precipice  without  trees. 

There  was  no  corner  in  these  hills  that  Mac- 
avoy  and  Pierre  did  not  know,  and  at  last,  when 
despair  seemed  to  settle  on  the  group,  Macavoy, 
having  spoken  a  low  word  to  Pierre,  said : 

"There  's  wan  way,  an'  maybe  I  can  an'  maybe 
I  can  't,  but  I  'ra  fit  to  try.  I  '11  go  up  the  river 
to  an  aisy  p'int  a  mile  above,  get  in,  and  drift 
down  to  a  p'int  below  there,  thin  climb  up  and 
loose  the  stuff." 

Every  man  present  knew  the  double  danger : 
the  swift  headlong  river,  and  the  sudden  rush  of 
rocks  and  stones,  which  must  be  loosed  on  the 
side  of  the  narrow  ravine  opposite  the  little 
house.  Macavoy  had  nothing  to  say  to  the 
head-shakes  of  the  others,  and  they  did  not  try 
to  dissuade  him  ;  for  women  and  children  were 
in  the  question,  and  there  they  were  below  near 
the  house,  the  children  gathered  round  the 
mother,  she  waiting — waiting. 

Macavoy  stripped  to  the  waist,  and  carrying 
only  a  hatchet  and  a  coil  of  rope  tied  round  him, 
started  away  alone  up   the   river.     The  others 


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An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


waited,  now  and  again  calling  comfort  to  the 
woman  below,  though  their  words  could  not  be 
heard.  About  half  an  hour  passed,  and  then 
some  one  called  out  :  "  Here  he  comes  !  "  Pres- 
ently they  could  see  the  rough  head  and  the  bare 
shoulders  of  the  giant  in  the  wild  churning 
stream.  There  was  only  one  point  where  he 
could  get  a  hold  on  the  hillside — the  jutting  bole 
of  a  tree  just  beneath  them,  and  beneath  the 
dyke  of  rock  and  trees. 

It  was  a  great  moment.  The  current  swayed 
him  out,  but  he  plunged  forward,  catching  at  the 
bole.  His  hand  seized  a  small  branch.  It  held 
him  an  instant,  as  he  was  swung  round,  then  it 
snapt.  But  the  other  hand  clenched  the  bole, 
and  to  a  loud  cheer,  which  Pierre  prompted, 
Macavoy  drew  himself  up.  After  that  they  could 
not  see  him.  He  alone  was  studying  the  situa- 
tion. He  found  the  key-rock  to  the  dyked  slide 
of  earth.  To  loosen  it  was  to  divert  the  slide 
away,  or  partly  away  from  the  little  house.  But 
it  could  not  be  loosened  from  above,  if  at  all, 
and  he  himself  would  be  in  the  path  of  the  de- 
stroying hill. 

"  Aisy,  aisy,  Tim  Macavoy,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  It's  the  woman  and  the  darlin's  av  her, 
an'  the  rose  o'  the  valley  down  there  at  the 
Post  1 " 


kt: 


The  Gift  of  the  Simple  King 


85 


A  minute  afterward,  having  chopped  down  a 
hiclvory  sapling,  he  began  to  pry  at  the  boulder 
which  held  the  mass.  Presently  a  tree  came 
crashing  down,  and  a  small  rush  of  earth  fol- 
lowed it,  and  the  hearts  of  the  men  above  and 
the  women  and  children  below  stood  still  for  an 
instant.  An  hour  passed  as  Macavoy  toiled  with 
a  strange  careful  skill  and  a  superhuman  concen- 
tration. His  body  was  all  shining  with  sweat, 
and  sweat  dripped  like  water  from  his  forehead. 
His  eyes  were  on  the  key-rock  and  the  pile,  alert, 
measuring,  intent.  At  last  he  paused.  He 
looked  round  at  the  hills — down  at  the  river,  up 
at  the  sky — humanity  was  shut  away  from  his 
sight.  He  was  alone.  A  long  hot  breath  broke 
from  his  lips,  stirring  his  big  red  beard.  Then 
he  gave  a  call,  a  long  call  that  echoed  through 
the  hills  weirdly  and  solemnly. 

It  reached  the  ears  of  those  above  like  a 
greeting  from  an  outside  world.  They  answered, 
"  Right,  Macavoy  !  " 

Years  afterward  these  men  told  how  then 
there  came  in  reply  one  word,  ringing  roundly 
through  the  hills — the  note  and  symbol  of  a 
crisis,  the  fantastic  cipher  of  a  soul — 

''McGuirer' 

There  was  a  loud  booming  sound,  the  dyke 
was   loosed,  the   ravine   spilt   into   the  swollen 


\\\ 


1        [ 


!   -A 


i  iii 


?i 


o 


86 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


stream  its  choking  mouthful  of  earth  and  rock  : 
and  a  minute  afterward  the  path  was  clear  to 
the  top  of  Champak  Hill.  To  it  came  the  un- 
harmed children  and  their  mother,  who,  from 
the  warm  peak  sent  the  wild  duck  "  to  the  rose 
o'  the  valley,"  which,  till  the  message  came,  was 
trembling  on  the  stem  of  life.  But  Joy,  that 
marvellous  healer,  kept  it  blooming  with  a  little 
Eden  bird  nestling  near,  whose  happy  tongue 
was  taught  in  after  years  to  tell  of  the  gift  of  The 
Simple  King  :  who  had  redeemed,  on  demand, 
the  promissory  note  forever. 


Malachi 

"  He  Ml  swing  just  the  same  to-morrow.  Exit 
Malachi  ! "  said  Freddy  Tarlton  gravely. 

The  door  suddenly  opened  on  the  group  of 
gossips,  and  a  man  stepped  inside  and  took  the 
only  vacant  seat  near  the  fire.  He  glanced  at 
none,  but  stretched  out  his  hands  to  the  heat, 
looking  at  the  coals  with  drooping  introspective 
eyes. 

**  Exit  Malachi,"  he  said  presently  in  a  soft 
ironical  voice,  but  did  not  look  up. 

"  By  the  holy  poker,  Pierre,  where  did  you 
spring  from  ?  "  asked  Tarlton  genially. 

"  The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth,  and — " 
Pierre  responded,  with  a  little  turn  of  his  fingers. 

"  And  the  wind  does  n't  tell  where  it 's  been, 
but  that's  no  reason  Pierre  shouldn't,"  urged 
the  other. 

Pierre  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  made  no 
answer. 

"  He  was  a  tough,"  said  a  voice  from  the 
crowd.  "  To-morrow  he  '11  get  the  breakfast  he 's 
paid  for." 

87 


'h 


li 


111 


m 


>i  iS 


J. 


88 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


li  *!;. 


Pierre  turned  and  looked  at  the  speaker  with 
a  cold  inquisitive  stare.  ^*  j\fo>i  Dicit  /"  he  said 
presently,  "  here  's  this  Gohawk  playing  preacher. 
What  do  you  know  of  Malachi,  Gohawk  ?  What 
do  any  of  you  know  about  Malachi  ?  A  little  of 
this,  a  little  of  that,  a  drink  here,  a  game  of 
euchre  there,  a  ride  after  cattle,  a  hunt  behind 
Guidon  Hill  ! — But  what  is  that  ?  You  have 
heard  the  cry  of  the  eagle,  you  have  seen  him 
carry  off  a  lamb,  you  have  had  a  pot-shot  at  him, 
but  what  do  you  know  of  the  eagle's  nest  ?  Mais 
7ton.  The  lamb  is  one  thing,  the  nest  is  another. 
You  don't  know  the  eagle  till  you'  ve  been  there. 
And  you,  Gohawk,  would  not  understand,  if  you 
saw  the  nest.     Such  cancan  /  " 

"Shut  your  mouth!"  broke  out  Gohawk. 
D*  ye  think  I  'm  going  to  stand  your — " 

Freddy  Tarlton  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 
Keep  quiet,  Gohawk.  What  good  will  it  do  ?" 
Then  he  said,  "Tell  us  about  the  nest,  Pierre; 
they  're  hanging  him  for  the  lamb  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"Who  spoke  for  him  at  the  trial?"  Pierre 
asked. 

"I  did,"  said  Tarlton.  "I  spoke  as  well  as  I 
could,  but  the  game  was  dead  against  him  from 
the  start.  The  sheriff  was  popular,  and  young  ; 
young — that  was  the  thing ;  handsome,  too,  and 


It 


II 


Malachi 


89 


the  women,  of  course !  It  was  sure  from  the 
start;  besides,  Malachi  would  say  nothing — 
did  n't  seem  to  care." 

"No,  not  to  care,"  mused  Pierre.  "What 
did  you  say  for  him  to  the  jury? — I  mean  the 
devil  of  a  thing  to  make  them  sit  up  and  think, 
'Poor  Malachi!'— like  that." 

"Best  speech  y' ever  heard,"  Gohawk  inter- 
jected; "just  emptied  the  words  out,  spilt  'em 
like  peas,  by  gol !  till  he  got  to  one  place  right 
before  the  end.  Then  he  pulled  up  sudden,  and 
it  got  so  quiet  you  could  'a  heard  a  pin  drop. 
*Gen'lemen  of  the  jury,'  says  Freddy  Tarlton 
here — gen'lemen,  by  gol!  all  that  lot— Lagan 
and  the  rest !  'Gen'lemen  of  the  jury,'  he  says, 
*be  you  danged  well  sure  that  you  're  at  one  with 
God  A'mighty  in  this ;  that  you  've  got  at  the 
core  of  justice  here ;  that  you  've  got  evidence 
to  satisfy  Him  who  you  've  all  got  to  satisfy  some 
day,  or  git  out.  Not  evidence  as  to  shootin',  but 
evidence  as  to  what  that  shootin'  meant,  an* 
whether  it  was  meant  to  kill,  an'  what  for.* 

"  'The  case  is  like  this,  gen'lemen  of  the  jury,' 
says  Freddy  Tarlton  here.  'Two  men  are  in  a 
street  alone.  There  's  a  shot,  out  comes  every- 
body, and  sees  Fargo  the  sheriff  laid  along  the 
ground,  his  mouth  in  the  dust,  and  a  full-up  gun 
in  his  fingers.     Not  forty  feet  away  stands  Mai- 


i 


it'i 


1 


h 


.1   w. 


..  I 


go 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


( 


m 


i 


achi  with  a  gun  smokin'  in  his  fist.  It  seems  to 
be  the  opinion  that  it  was  cussedness — just  cuss- 
edness  —  that  made  Mahachi  turn  the  sheriff's 
boots  to  the  sun.  For  Malachi  was  quarrelsome. 
I  Ml  give  you  a  quarter  on  that.  And  the  sheriff 
was  mettlesome,  used  to  have  high  spirits,  like 
as  if  he  's  lift  himself  over  the  fence  with  his 
boot-straps.  So,  when  Malachi  come  and  saw 
the  sheriff  steppin'  round  in  his  paten*  leathers, 
it  give  him  the  needle,  and  he  got  a  bead  on 
him — and  away  went  Sheriff  Fargo — right  away! 
That  seems  to  be  the  sense  of  the  public*  And 
he  stops  again,  soft  and  quick,  and  looks  the 
twelve  in  the  eyes  at  once.  'But,'  says  Freddy 
Tarlton  here,  'are  you  goin'  to  hang  a  man  on 
the  little  you  know?  Or  are  you  goin*  to  credit 
him  with  somethin'  of  what  you  do  n't  know  ? 
You  haint  got  the  inside  of  this  thing,  and  Mal- 
achi does  n't  let  you  know  it,  and  God  keeps 
quiet.  But  be  danged  well  sure  that  you  've  got 
the  bulge  on  iniquity  here ;  for  gen'lemen  with 
pistols  out  in  the  street  is  one  thing,  and  sittin* 
weavin'  a  rope  in  a  courtroom  for  a  man's  neck 
is  another  thing,'  says  Freddy  Tarlton  here. 
*  My  client  has  refused  to  say  one  word  this  or 
that  way,  but  do  n't  be  sure  that  Some  One  that 
knows  the  inside  of  things  won't  speak  for  him 
in  the  end.* 


Malachi 


91 


"Then  he  turns  and  looks  at  Malachi,  and 
Malachi  was  standin'  still  and  steady  like  a  tree, 
but  his  face  was  white,  and  sweat  poured  on  his 
forehead.  *  If  God  has  no  voice  to  be  heard  for 
my  client  in  this  courtroom  to-day,  is  there  no 
one  on  earth  —  no  man  or  woman  —  who  can 
speak  for  one  who  won't  speak  for  himself?' 
says  Freddy  Tarlton  here.  Then,  by  gol !  for 
the  first  time  Malachi  opened.  '  There  's  no 
one,'  he  says.  'The  speakin'  is  all  for  t^e  sheriff. 
But  I  spoke  once,  and  the  sheriff  did  n't  answer.' 
Not  a  bit  of  beg-yer-pardon  in  it.  It  struck  cold. 
*  I  leave  his  case  in  the  hands  of  twelve  true  men,' 
says  Freddy  Tarlton  here,  and  he  sits  down. 

"So  they  said  he  must  walk  the  air?"  sug- 
gested Pierre. 

"  Without  leavin'  their  seats,"  some  one  added 
instantly. 

"Sol  But  that  speech  of  'Freddy  Tarlton 
here'?" 

"  It  was  worth  twelve  drinks  to  me,  no  more, 
and  nothing  at  all  to  Malachi,"  said  Tarlton. 
"  When  I  said  I  *d  come  to  him  to-night  to 
cheer  him  up,  he  said  he  'd  rather  sleep.  The 
missionary,  toe,  he  can  make  nothing  of  him. 
*I  don't  need  anyone  here,',  he  says.  'I  eat 
this  off  my  own  plate.'  And  that 's  the  end  of 
Malachi." 


I    »■' 


f 


HI 


! 


92 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


'■■■■  I 


"  Because  there  was  no  one  to  speak  for  him 
—eh?     Well,  well." 

"If  he'd  said  anythin^^  that 'd  justify  the 
thing  —  make  it  a  manslaughter  business  or  a 
quarrel — thenl  But  no,  not  a  word,  up  or  down, 
high  or  low.  Exit  Malachi!"  added  Freddy 
Tarlton  sorrowfully.  "  I  wish  he  'd  given  me 
half  a  chance." 

"  I  wish  I  'd  been  there,"  said  Pierre,  trking 
a  match  from  Gohawk,  and  lighting  his  cigar- 
ette. 

"To  hear  his  speech?"  asked  Gohawk,  nod- 
ding toward  Tarlton. 

"  To  tell  the  truth  about  it  all.  T  'sh,  you 
bats,  you  sheep,  what  have  you  in  your  skulls  ? 
When  a  man  will  not  speak,  wiU  not  lie  to  gain 
a  case  for  his  lawyer — or  save  himself,  there  is 
something  I  Now,  listen  to  me,  and  1  will  tell 
you  the  story  of  Malachi.   Then  you  shall  judge. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  face  as  that  girl  had 
down  there  at  Lachine  in  Quebec.  I  knew  her 
when  she  was  a  child,  and  I  knew  Malachi  when 
he  was  on  the  river  with  the  rafts,  the  foreman 
of  a  gang.  He  had  a  look  all  open  then  as  the 
sun — yes.  Happy  ?  Yes,  as  happy  as  a  man 
ought  to  be.  Well,  the  mother  of  the  child  died, 
and  Malachi  alone  was  left  to  take  care  of  the 
little  Nc-ice.     He  left  the  river  and  went  to  work 


Malachi 


93 


in  the  mills,  so  that  he  might  be  with  the  child  ; 
and  when  he  got  to  be  foreman  there  he  used  to 
bring  her  to  the  mill,  lie  had  a  basket  swung 
for  her  just  inside  the  mill  not  far  from  him, 
right  where  she  was  in  the  shade  ;  but  if  she 
stretched  out  her  hand  it  would  be  in  the 
sun.  I  've  seen  a  hundred  men  turn  to  look  at 
her  where  she  swung,  shiging  to  herself,  and 
then  chuckle  to  themselves  afterward  as  they 
worked. 

"  When  Trevoor,  the  owner,  come  one  day, 
and  saw  her,  he  swore,  and  was  going  to  sack 
Malachi,  but  the  child — that  little  Norice — 
leaned  over  the  basket,  and  offered  him  an  apple. 
He  looked  for  a  minute,  then  he  reached  up, 
took  the  apple,  turned  round,  and  went  out  of 
the  mill  without  a  word — so.  Next  month  when 
he  come  he  walked  straight  to  her,  and  handed 
up  to  her  a  box  of  toys  and  a  silver  whistle. 
*  That's  to  call  me  when  you  want  me,*  he  said, 
as  he  put  the  whistle  to  her  lips,  and  then  he  put 
the  gold  string  of  it  round  her  neck.  She  was  a 
wise  little  thing,  that  Norice,  and  noticed  things. 
I  don 't  believe  that  Trevoor  or  Malachi  ever 
knew  how  sweet  was  the  smell  of  the  fresh  saw- 
dust till  she  held  it  to  their  noses  ;  and  it  was 
she  that  had  the  saws — all  sizes — start  one  after 
the  other,  making  so  strange  a  tune.     She  made 


I 


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J 


94 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


up  a  little  song  about  fairies  and  others  to  sing 
to  that  tunc. 

•'And  no  one  ever  thought  much  about  In- 
dian Island,  off  beyond  the  sweating,  baking 
piles  of  lumber,  and  the  blistering  logs  and  tim- 
bers in  the  bay,  till  she  told  stories  about  it. 
Sure  enough,  when  you  saw  tlu;  shut  doors  and 
open  windows  of  those  empty  houses,  all  white 
without  in  the  sun  and  dark  within,  and  not  a 
human  to  be  seen,  you  could  believe  almost  any- 
thing. You  can  think  how  proud  Malachi  was 
— ho  1  She  used  to  get  plenty  of  presents  from 
the  men  who  had  no  wives  or  children  to  care 
for — little  silver  and  gold  things  as  well  as 
others.  She  was  fond  of  them,  but  no,  not  vain. 
She  loved  the  gold  and  silver  for  their  own  sake." 

Pierre  paused.  **  I  knew  a  youngster  once," 
said  Gohawk,  "  that — " 

Pierre  waved  his  hand.  "  I  'm  not  through, 
M  'sieu'  Gohawk  the  talker.  Years  went  on. 
Now  she  took  care  of  the  house  of  Malachi.  She 
wore  the  whistle  that  Trevoor  gave  her.  He  kept 
saying  to  her  still,  *If  ever  you  need  me,  little 
Norice,  blow  it,  and  I  will  come.*  He  was  droll; 
that  M  'sieu'  Trevoor,  at  times.  Well  she  did 
not  blow,  but  still  he  used  to  come  every  year, 
and  always  brought  her  something.  One  year 
he  brought  his  nephew,  a  young  fellow  of  about 


ii  ' 


) ) 


(1 


Malachi 


95 


tv.'cnty-threc.  She  did  not  whistle  for  him 
cither,  but  he  ivcpt  on  coming.  'I'hat  was  the 
bc^Mnnini;  of  '  ICxit  Malachi.'  The  man  was 
clever  and  bad,  the  girl  believing  and  good.  lie 
was  young,  but  he  knew  how  to  win  a  woman's 
heart.  When  that  is  done,  there  is  nothing 
more  to  do — she  is  yours  for  good  or  evil ;  and 
if  a  man,  through  a  woman's  love,  makes  her  to 
sin,  even  his  mother  cannot  be  proud  of  him — 
no.  IJut  the  man  married  Norice,  and  took  her 
away  to  Madison,  down  in  Wisconsin.  Malachi 
was  left  alone — Malachi  and  Trcvoor,  for  Tre- 
voor  felt  to  her  as  a  father. 

"  A/ors,  sorrow  come  to  the  girl,  for  her  hus- 
band began  to  play  cards  and  to  drink,  and  he 
lost  much  money.  There  was  the  trouble — the 
two  together.  They  lived  in  a  hotel.  One  day 
a  lady  missed  a  diamond  necklace  from  her 
room.  Norice  had  been  with  her  the  night 
before.  Norice  come  into  her  own  room  the 
next  afternoon,  and  found  detectives  searching. 
In  her  own  jewel-case,  which  was  tucked  away  in 
the  pocket  of  an  old  dress,  was  found  the  neck- 
lace. She  was  arrested.  She  said  nothing — for 
she  waited  for  her  husband,  who  was  out  of  town 
that  day.  He  only  come  in  time  to  see  her  in 
court  next  morning.  She  did  not  deny  any- 
thing ;  she  was  quiet   like  Malachi.     The  man 


n 


1  .1 


m 


W\ 


(1 


96 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


I' 


played  his  part  well.  He  had  hid  the  necklace 
where  he  thought  it  would  be  safe,  but  when  it 
was  found,  he  let  the  wife  take  the  blame — a  lit- 
tle innocent  thing.  People  were  sorry  for  them 
both.  She  was  sent  to  jail.  Her  father  was 
away  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  he  did  not 
hear  ;  Trevoor  was  in  Europe.  The  husband 
got  a  divorce,  and  was  gone.  Norice  was  in  jail 
for  over  a  year,  and  then  she  was  set  free,  for  her 
health  went  bad,  and  her  mind  was  going,  they 
thought.  She  did  not  know  till  she  come  out 
that  she  was  divorced.  Then  she  nearly  died. 
But  then  Trevoor  come." 

Freddy  Tarlton's  hands  were  cold  nth  ex- 
citement, and  his  fingers  trembled  so  he  could 
hardly  light  a  cigar. 

"  Go  on,  go  on,  Pierre,"  he  said  huskily. 

"  Trevoor  said  to  her — he  told  me  this  him- 
self— '  Why  did  you  not  whistle  tor  me,  Norice  ? 
A  word  would  have  brought  me  from  Europe.* 
*No  one  could  help  me,  no  one  at  all,*  she 
answered.  Then  Trevoor  said,  '  I  know  who  did 
it,  for  he  has  robbed  me  too.*  She  sank  in  a 
heap  on  the  floor.  *  I  could  have  stood  it  and 
anything  for  him,  if  he  hadn't  divorced  me,' 
she  said.  Then  they  cleared  her  name  before 
the  world.  But  where  was  the  man  ?  No  one 
knew.    At  last  Malachi,  in  the  Rocky  Mountains, 


m 


Malachi 


97 


heard  of  her  trouble,  for  Norice  wrote  to  him, 
but  told  him  not  to  do  the  man  any  harm,  if  he 
ever  found  him— ah,  a  woman,  a  woman  !  .  .  . 
But  Malachi  met  the  man  one  day  at  Guidon 
Hill,  and  shot  him  in  the  street." 

"  Fargo  the  sheriff! "  said  half-a-dozen  voices. 

"  Yes ;  he  had  changed  his  name,  had  come 

up  here,  and  because  he  was  clever  and  spent 

money,  and  had  a  pull  on  someone,— got  it  at 

cards,  perhaps, — he  was  made  sheriff." 

"In  God's  name,  why  did  n't  Malachi  speak?" 
said  Tarlton;  "why  didn't  he  tell  me  this?" 

"  Because  he  and  I  had  our  own  plans.  The 
one  evidence  he  wanted  was  Norice.  If  she 
would  come  to  him  in  his  danger,  and  in  spite 
of  his  killing  the  man,  good.  If  not,  then  he 
would  die.  Well,  I  went  to  find  her  and  fetch 
her.  I  found  her.  There  was  no  way  to  jend 
word,  so  we  had  to  come  on  as  fast  as  we  could. 
We  have  come  just  in  time." 

"  Do  ye  mean  to  say  that  she 's  here,  Pierre?" 
said  Gohawk. 

Pierre  waved  his  hand  emphatically.  "  And 
so  we  came  on  with  a  pardon." 

Every  man  was  on  his  feet,  every  man's 
tongue  was  loosed,  and  each  "ordered  liquor 
for  Pierre,  and  asked  him  where  the  girl  was. 
Freddy  Tarlton  wrung  his  hand,  and  called  a 


98 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


1  ■  k 


boy  to  go  to  his  rooms  and  bring  three  bottles 
of  wine,  which  he  had  kept  for  two  years,  to 
drink  when  he  had  won  his  first  big  case. 

Gohawk  was  importunate.  "  Where  is  the 
girl,  Pierre?"  he  urged. 

"Such  a  fool  as  you  are,  Gohawk!  She  is 
with  her  fataer." 

A  half-hour  later,  in  a  large  sitting-room, 
Freddy  Tarlton  was  making  eloquent  toasts  over 
the  wine.  As  they  all  stood  drinking  to  Pierre, 
the  door  opened  from  the  hallway,  and  Malachi 
stood  before  them.  At  his  shoulder  was  a  face, 
wistful,  worn,  yet  with  a  kind  of  happiness,  too ; 
and  the  eyes  had  depths  which  any  man  might 
be  glad  to  drown  his  heart  in. 

Malachi  stood  still,  not  speaking,  and  an  awe 
or  awkwardness  fell  on  the  group  at  the  table. 

But  Norice  stepped  forward  a  little,  and  said  : 
"May  we  come  in?" 

In  an  instant  Freddy  Tarlton  was  by  her  side, 
and  had  her  by  the  hand,  her  and  her  father, 
drawing  them  over. 

His  ardent,  admiring  look  gave  Norice 
thought  for  many  a  day. 

And  that  night  Pierre  made  an  accurate 
prophecy. 


M 


The  Lake  of  the  Great  Slave 

When  Tybalt  the  tale-gatherer  asked  why  it 
was  so  called,  Pierre  said:  "Because  of  the 
Great  Slave;"  and  then  paused. 

Tybalt  did  not  hurry  Pierre,  knowing  his 
whims.  If  he  wished  to  tell,  he  would  in  his  own 
time;  if  not,  nothing  could  draw  it  from  him. 
It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  Pierre  eased  off 
from  the  puzzle  he  was  solving  with  bits  of  paper 
and  obliged  Tybalt.  He  began  as  if  they  had 
been  speaking  the  moment  before : 

"They  have  said  it  is  legend,  but  I  know 
better.  I  have  seen  the  records  of  the  Com- 
pany, and  it  is  all  there.  I  was  at  Fort  O'Glory 
once,  and  in  a  box  two  hundred  years  old  the 
factor  and  I  found  it.  There  were  other  papers, 
and  some  of  them  had  large  red  seals,  and  a 
name  scrawled  along  the  end  of  the  page." 

Pierre  shook  his  head,  as  if  in  contented 
musing.  He  was  a  born  story-teller.  Tybalt 
was  aching  with  interest,  for  he  scented  a  thing 
of  note. 

99 


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i 


100 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


"  How  did  any  of  those  papers,  signed  with  a 
scrawl,  begin?"  he  asked. 

"  *  To  our  dearly-beloved^^  or  something  like 
that,"  answered  Pierre.  "There  were  letters 
also.  Two  of  them  were  full  of  harsh  words, 
and  these  were  signed  with  the  scrawl." 

"What  was  that  scrawl  ?"  asked  Tybalt. 

Pierre  stooped  to  the  sand,  and  wrote  two 
words  with  his  finger.  "  Like  that,"  he  an- 
swered. 

Tybalt  looked  intently  for  an  instant,  and 
then  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Charles  ReXj*  he 
said,  hardly  above  his  breath. 

Pierre  gave  him  a  suggestive  sidelong  glance. 
"That  name  was  droll,  eh  ?" 

Tybalt's  blood  was  tingling  with  the  joy  of 
discovery.  "  It  is  a  great  name,"  he  said, 
shortly. 

"  The  Slave  was  great  —  the  Indians  said  so 
at  the  last." 

"  But  that  was  not  the  name  of  the  Slave  ?  " 

^^  Mais  nan.  Who  said  so  ?  Charles  Rex — ^ 
like  that !  was  the  man  who  wrote  the  letters." 

"  To  the  Great  Slave  ?  " 

Pierre  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "  Very 
sure." 

"Where  are  those  letters  now?" 

"  With  the  Governor  of  the  Company." 


i»l 


The  Lake  of  the  Great  Slave         loi 

Tybalt    cut    the    tobacco  for  his  pipe  sav- 
agely.  ^  ^ 

"You  'd  have  liked  one  of  those  papers  ?" 
asked  Pierre,  provokingly. 

"I'd  give  five  hundred  dollars  for  one  1 " 
broke  out  Tybalt. 

Pierre  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "  T'sh,  what 's  the 
good  of  five  hundred  dollars  up  here?  What 
would  you  do  with  a  letter  like  that?  " 

Tybalt  laughed  with  a  touch  of  irony,  for 
Pierre  was  clearly  "rubbing  it  in." 

'I  Perhaps  for  a  book  ? ''  gently  asked  Pierre. 

"Yes,  if  you  like." 

"  It  is  a  pity.     But  there  is  a  wav  " 
"How?"  ^' 

"  Put  me  in  the  book.     Then  — 

"  How  does  that  touch  the  case  ?  " 

Pierre  shrugged  a  shoulder  gently,    for  he 

thought  Tybalt  was  unusually  obtuse.     Tybalt 

thought  so  himself  before  the  episode  ended. 
"  Go  on,"  he  said,  with  clouded  brow,  but 

interested  eye.   Then,  as  if  with  sudden  thought : 
To  whom  were  the  letters  addressed,  Pierre  ?" 

^    "  Wait !  "  was  the  reply.      "  One  letter  said  : 
Good  cousin,  We  are  evermore  glad  to  have 

thee  and  thy  most  excelling-  mistress  near  us. 

So,  fail  us  not  at  our  cheerful  doings  yonder  at 

Highgate.        Another  -  a    year  after  -  said  • 


IN 


''11 


■lij 


i  H 


102 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


ii 


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I 


1'' 


!. 


*  Cousin,  for  the  sweetening  of  our  mind,  get 
thee  gone  into  some  distant  corner  of  our  pas- 
turage—  the  farthest  doth  please  us  niost.  We 
would  not  have  thee  on  foreign  ground,  for  we 
bear  no  ill-will  to  our  brother  princes,  and  yet 
we  would  not  have  thee  near  our  garden  of  good 
loyal  souls,  for  thou  hast  a  rebel  heart  and  a 
tongue  of  divers  tunes  —  thou  lovest  not  the 
good  old  song  of  duty  to  thy  prince.  Obeying 
us,  thy  lady  shall  keep  thine  estates  untouched  ; 
failing  obedience,  thou  wilt  make  more  than  thy 
prince  unhappy.  Fare  thee  well.'  That  was 
the  way  of  two  letters,"  said  Pierre. 

"  How  do  you  remember  so  ?  " 

Pierre  shrugged  a  shoulder  again.  "  It  is 
easy  with  things  like  that." 

"  But  word  for  word?  " 

"  I  learned  it  word  for  word." 

"Now  for  the  story  of  the  Lake  —  if  you 
won  't  tell  me  the  name  of  the  man." 

"The  name  afterward  —  perhaps.  Well,  he 
came  to  that  farthest  corner  of  the  pasturage,  to 
the  Hudson's  Bay  country,  two  hundred  years 
ago.  What  do  you  think  ?  Was  he  so  sick  of 
all,  that  he  would  go  so  far  he  could  never  get 
back  ?  Maybe  those  *  cheerful  doings'  at  High- 
gate,  eh  ?     And  the  lady — who  can  tell  ?" 

Tybalt   seized    Pierre's   arm.      "  You   know 


■■■' 


The  Lake  of  the  Great  Slave 


103 


more.  Damnation  1  can 't  you  see  I  *m  on 
needles  to  liear  ?  Was  there  anything  in  the 
letters  about  the  lady  ?- — anything  more  than 
you've  told  ?" 

Pierre  liked  no  man's  hand  on  him.  He 
glanced  down  at  the  eager  fingers,  and  said 
coldly  : 

"  You  are  a  great  man  ;  you  can  tell  a  story 
in  many  ways,  but  I  in  one  way  alone,  and  that 
is  my  way  —  ?/iais  otii  !  " 

"Very  well,  take  your  own  time." 

"  BicH.  I  got  the  story  from  two  heads.  If 
you  hear  a  thing  like  that  from  Indians,  you  call 
it  legend  ;  if  from  the  Company's  papers,  you 
call  it  history.  Well,  in  this  there  is  not  much 
difference.  The  papers  tell  precise  the  facts ; 
the  legend  gives  the  feeling,  is  more  true.  How 
can  you  judge  the  facts  if  you  do  n't  know  the 
feeling  ?  No  !  what  is  bad  turns  good  some- 
times, when  you  know  the  how,  the  feeling,  the 
place.  Well,  this  story  of  the  Great  Slave — eh  ! 
.  .  .  There  is  a  race  of  Indians  in  the  far  north 
who  have  hair  so  brown  like  yours,  m'sieu',  and 
eyes  no  darker.  It  is  said  they  are  of  those  that 
lived  at  the  Pole,  before  the  sea  swamped  the 
Isthmus,  and  swallowed  up  so  many  islands.  So 
in  those  days  the  fair  race  came  to  the  south  for 
the  first  time,  that  is,  far  below  the  Circle.   They 


i 


104 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


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had  their  women  with  them.  I  have  seen  those 
of  to-day  :  fine  and  tall,  with  breasts  like  apples, 
and  a  check  to  tempt  a  man  like  you,  m'sieu*  ; 
no  grease  in  the  hair — no,  M'sieu'  Tybalt  !  " 

Tybalt  sat  moveless  under  the  obvious  irony, 
but  his  eyes  were  fixed  intently  on  Pierre,  his 
mind  ever  traveling  far  ahead  of  the  tale. 

"Alors:  the  *  good  cousin'  of  Charles  Rex, 
he  made  a  journey  with  two  men  to  the  Far-off 
Metal  River,  and  one  day  this  tribe  from  the 
north  come  on  his  camp.  It  was  summer,  and 
they  were  camping  in  the  Valley  of  the  Young 
Moon,  more  sweet,  they  say,  than  any  in  the 
north.  The  Indians  cornered  them.  There  was 
a  fight,  and  one  of  the  Company's  men  was 
killed,  and  five  of  the  other.  But  when  the  king 
of  the  people  of  the  Pole  saw  that  the  great  man 
was  fair  of  face,  he  called  for  the  fight  to  stop. 

"  There  was  a  big  talk  all  by  signs,  and  the 
king  said  for  the  great  man  to  come  and  be  one 
with  them,  for  they  liked  his  fair  face — their 
fore-fathers  were  fair  like  him.  He  should  have 
the  noblest  of  their  women  for  his  wife,  and  be  a 
prince  among  them.  He  would  not  go  :  so  they 
drew  away  again  and  fought.  A  stone-axe 
brought  the  great  man  to  the  ground.  He  was 
stunned,  not  killed.  Then  the  other  man  gave 
up,  and  said  he  would  be  one  of  them  if  they 


\ 


k-\ 


The  Lake  of  the  Great  Slave 


105 


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a 


las 


would  take  him.  They  would  have  killed  him 
but  for  one  of  their  women.  She  said  that  he 
should  live  to  tell  them  tales  of  the  south  coun- 
try and  the  strange  people,  when  they  came 
again  to  their  camp-fires.  So  they  let  hiin  live, 
and  he  was  one  of  them.  But  the  chief  man, 
because  he  was  stubborn  and  scorned  them,  and 
had  kiP'^d  the  son  of  their  king  in  the  fight,  they 
made  a  slave,  and  carried  him  north  a  captive,  till 
they  came  to  this  lake — the  Lake  of  the  Great 
Slave. 

"  In  all  ways  they  tried  him,  but  he  would 
not  yield,  neither  to  wear  their  dress  nor  to  wor- 
ship their  gods.  He  was  robbed  of  his  clothes, 
of  his  gold-handled  dagger,  his  belt  of  silk  and 
silver,  his  carbine  with  rich  chasing,  and  all,  and 
he  was  among  them  almost  naked, — it  was  sum- 
mer, as  I  said, — yet  defying  them.  He  was 
taller  by  a  head  than  any  of  them,  and  his  white 
skin  rippled  in  the  sun  like  soft  steel." 

Tybalt  was  inclined  to  ask  Pierre  how  he 
knew  all  this,  but  he  held  his  peace.  Pierre,  as 
if  divining  his  thoughts,  continued  : 

"  You  ask  how  I  know  these  things.  Very 
good  :  there  are  the  legends,  and  there  were  the 
papers  of  the  Company.  The  Indians  tried 
every  way,  but  it  was  no  use  ;  he  would  have 
nothing  to  say  to  them.     At  last  they  come  to 


m 


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An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


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\\\ 


this  lake.  Now  something  great  occurred.  The 
woman  who  had  been  the  wife  of  the  king's  dead 
son,  her  heart  went  out  in  love  of  tiie  (]reat 
Slave ;  but  he  never  looked  at  her.  One  day 
there  were  great  sports,  for  it  was  the  Feast  of 
the  Red  Star.  The  young  men  did  feats  of 
strength,  here  on  this  ground  where  we  sit.  The 
king's  wife  called  out  for  the  Great  Slave  to 
measure  strength  with  them  all.  He  would  not 
stir.  The  king  commanded  him  ;  still  he  would 
not,  but  stood  among  them  silent  and  looking 
far  away  over  their  heads.  At  last,  two  young 
men  of  good  height  and  bone  threw  arrows  at 
his  bare  breast.  The  blood  came  in  spots.  Then 
he  give  a  cry  through  his  beard,  and  was  on 
them  like  a  lion.  He  caught  them,  one  in  each 
arm,  swung  them  from  the  ground,  and  brought 
their  heads  together  with  a  crash,  breaking  their 
skulls,  and  dropped  them  at  his  feet.  Catching 
up  a  long  spear,  he  waited  for  the  rest.  But 
they  did  not  come,  for,  with  a  loud  voice,  the 
king  told  them  to  fall  back,  and  went  and  felt  the 
bodies  of  the  men.  One  of  them  was  dead  ;  the 
other  was  his  second  son — he  would  live. 

" '  It  is  a  great  deed,'  said  the  king,  *  forthese 
were  no  children,  but  strong  men.' 

"  Then  again  he  offered  the  Great  Slave 
women  to  marry,  and  fifty  tents  of  deerskin  for 


The  Lake  of  the  Great  Slave 


107 


iir 


the  making'  of  a  village.  But  the  Great  Slave 
said  no,  and  asked  to  be  sent  back  to  Fort 
O'GIory. 

"The  king  refused.  IJut  that  night,  as  he 
slept  in  his  tent,  the  girl-widow  came  to  him, 
waked  him,  and  told  him  to  follow  her.  lie 
came  forth,  and  she  led  him  softly  through  the 
silent  camp  to  that  wood  which  we  see  over 
there.  He  told  her  she  need  not  go  on.  With- 
out a  word,  she  reached  over  and  kissed  him  on 
the  breast.  Then  he  understood.  lie  told  her 
that  she  could  not  come  with  him,  for  there  was 
that  lady  in  I^ngland — his  wife,  eh  ?  But  never 
mind,  that  will  come.  He  was  too  great  to  save 
his  life,  or  be  free  at  the  price.  Some  are  born 
that  way.  They  have  their  own  commandments 
and  they  keep  them. 

"  He  told  her  that  she  must  go  back.  She 
gave  a  little  cry,  and  sank  down  at  his  feet,  say- 
ing that  her  life  would  be  in  danger  if  she  went 
back. 

"Then  he  told  her  to  come;  for  it  was  in 
his  mind  to  bring  her  to  Fort  O' Glory,  where 
she  could  marry  an  Indian  there.  But  now  she 
would  not  go  with  him,  and  turned  toward  the 
village.  A  woman  is  a  strange  creature  —  yes, 
like  that  !  He  refused  to  go  and  leave  her. 
She  was  in  danger,  and  he  would  siiare  it,  what- 


1^ 


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An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


I .  I 


ever  it  mi^hl  be.  So,  though  she  prayed  him 
not,  he  went  back  with  her  ;  and  when  she  saw 
that  he  would  go  in  s[)itc  of  all,  she  was  glad  : 
which  is  like  a  woman. 

"When  he  entered  the  tent  again,  he  guessed 
her  danger,  for  he  stepped  over  the  bodies  of 
two  dead  men.  She  had  killed  them.  As  she 
turned  at  the  door  to  go  to  her  own  tent,  another 
woman  faced  her.  It  was  the  wife  of  the  king, 
who  had  suspected,  and  had  now  found  out. 
Who  can  tell  what  it  was  ?  Jealousy,  perhaps. 
The  Great  Slave  could  tell,  maybe,  if  he  could 
speak,  for  a  man  always  knows  when  a  woman 
sets  him  high.  Anyhow,  that  was  the  way  it 
stood.  In  a  moment  the  girl  was  marched  back 
to  her  tent,  and  all  the  camp  heard  a  wicked  lie 
of  the  widow  of  the  king's  son. 

"  To  it  there  was  an  end,  after  the  way  of 
their  laws.  The  woman  should  die  by  fire,  and 
the  man  as  the  king  might  will.  So  there  was  a 
great  gathering  in  the  place  where  we  are,  and 
the  king  sat  against  that  big  white  stone,  which 
is  now  as  it  was  then.  Silence  was  called,  and 
they  brought  the  girl-widow  forth.  The  king 
spoke  : 

"  *  Thou  who  hadst  a  prince  for  thy  husband, 
didst  go  in  the  night  to  the  tent  of  the  slave 
who  killed   thy   husband ;   whereby  thou  also 


■    5 


' 


The  Lake  of  the  Great  Slave 


109 


bccamcst  a  slave,  and  didst  shame  the  great- 
ness which  was  given  tliee.  Tliou  shall  die,  as 
has  been  set  in  our  law.' 

"The  girl-widow  rose  and  spoke:  'I  did 
not  know,  O  king,  that  he  whom  thou  inad'st  a 
slave  slow  my  husband,  the  prince  of  our  people, 
and  thy  son.  That  was  not  told  me.  But  had 
I  known  it,  still  would  I  have  set  him  free,  for 
thy  son  was  killed  in  fair  battle,  and  this  man 
deserves  not  slavery  or  torture.  I  did  seek  the 
tent  of  the  Great  Slave,  and  it  was  to  set  him 
free  —  no  more.  For  that  did  I  go,  and,  for  the 
rest,  my  soul  is  open  to  the  Spirit  Who  Sees.  I 
have  done  naught,  and  never  did,  nor  ever  will, 
that  might  shame  a  king,  or  the  daughter  of  a 
king,  or  the  wife  of  a  king,  or  a  woman.  If  to 
set  a  great  captive  free  is  death  for  me,  then  am 
I  ready.  I  will  answer  all  pure  women  in  the 
far  Camp  of  the  Great  Fires  without  fear.  There 
is  no  more,  O  king,  that  I  may  say,  but  this  : 
She  who  dies  by  fire,  being  of  noble  blood,  may 
choose  who  shall  light  the  faggots  —  is  it  not 
so?' 

"  Then  the  king  replied  :  'It  is  so  ;  such  is 
our  law.* 

"  There  was  counselling  between  the  king 
and  his  oldest  men,  and  so  long  were  they  hand- 
ing the  matter  back  and  forth  that  it  looked  as 


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An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


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if  she  might  go  free.  But  the  king's  wife,  see- 
ing, came  and  spoke  to  the  king  and  the 
others,  crying  out  for  the  honor  of  her  dead 
son ;  so  that  in  a  moment  of  anger  they  all 
cried  out  for  death. 

"When  the  king  said  again  to  the  girl  that 
she  must  die  by  fire,  she  answered  :  *  It  is  as  the 
gods  will.  But  it  is  so,  as  I  said,  that  I  may 
choose  who  shall  light  the  fires  ? ' 

"  The  king  answered  yes,  and  asked  her  whom 
she  chose.  She  pointed  towards  the  Great  Siave. 
And  all,  even  the  king  and  his  councillors,  won- 
dered, for  they  knew  little  of  the  heart  of  women. 
What  is  a  man  with  a  matter  like  that  ?  Noth- 
ing— nothing  at  all.  They  would  have  set  this 
for  punishment :  that  she  should  ask  for  it  was 
beyond  them.  Yes,  even  the  king's  wife — it  was 
beyond  her.  But  the  girl  herself,  see  you,  was 
it  not  this  way  ? — If  she  died  by  the  hand  of  him 
she  loved,  then  it  would  be  easy,  for  she  could 
forget  the  pain,  in  the  thought  that  his  heart 
would  ache  for  her,  and  that  at  the  very  last  he 
might  care,  and  she  should  see  it.  She  was 
great  in  her  way  also — that  girl,  two  hundred 
years  ago. 

^^  Aiors,  they  led  her  a  little  distance  off, — 
there  is  the  spot,  where  you  see  the  ground  heave 
a  little, — and  the  Great  Slave  was  brought  up. 


The  Lake  of  the  Great  Slave  1 1 1 

The  king  told  him  why  the  girl  was  to  die.  He 
stood  like  stone,  looking,  looking  at  them.  He 
knew  that  the  girl's  heart  was  like  a  little  child's, 
and  the  shame  and  cruelty  of  the  thing  froze 
him  silent  for  a  minute,  and  the  color  flew  from 
his  face  to  here  and  there  on  his  body,  as  a  flame 
on  marble.  The  cords  began  to  beat  and  throb 
in  his  neck  and  on  his  forehead,  and  his  eyes 
gave  out  fire  like  flint  on  an  arrow-head. 

"Then  he  began  to  talk.     He  could  not  say 
much,  for  he  knew  so  little  of  their  language. 
But  it  was  'No  ! '  every  other  word.    '  No— no- 
no— no  ! '   the  words   ringing    from    his   chest. 
*  She  is  good  ! '  he  said.     '  The  other— no  ! '  and 
he  made  a  motion  with  his  hand.     '  She  must 
not  die— no  !     Evil  ?     It  is  a  lie  !     I  will  kill 
each  man  that  says  it,  one  by  one,  if  he  dares 
come    forth.      She    tried    to    save   me— well  ? ' 
"  Then  he  made  them  know  that  he  was  of  high 
place  in  a  far  country,  and  that  a  man   like  him 
would  not  tell  a  lie.     That  pleased  the  king,  for 
he  was  proud,  and  he  saw  that  the  Slave  was  of 
better  stuff  than  himself.     Besides,  the  king  was 
a  brave  man,  and  he  had  strength,  and  morethan 
once  he  had  laid  his  hand  on  the  chest  of  the 
other,  as  one  might. on  a  grand  animal.     Per- 
haps, even  then,  they  might  have  spared  the  girl 
was  it  not  for  the  queen.     She  would  not  hear 


.1 


112 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


* 


111 


W;B 


n 


<%  fi 


of  it.  Then  they  tried  the  Great  Slave,  and  he 
was  found  guilty.  The  queen  sent  hiin  word  to 
beg  for  pardon.  So  he  stood  out  and  spoke  to 
the  queen.  She  sat  up  straight,  with  pride  in 
her  eyes,  for  was  it  not  a  great  prince,  as  she 
thought,  asking  ?  But  a  cloud  fell  on  her  face, 
for  he  begged  the  girl's  life.  Since  there  must 
be  death,  let  him  die,  and  die  by  fire  in  her 
place  !  It  was  then  two  women  cried  out :  the 
poor  girl  for  joy — not  at  the  thought  that  her 
life  would  be  saved,  but  because  she  thought  the 
man  loved  her  now,  or  he  would  not  offer  to  die 
for  her ;  and  the  queen  for  hate,  because  she 
thought  the  same.  You  can  guess  the  rest : 
they  were  both  to  die,  though  the  king  was  sorry 
for  the  man. 

"The  king's  speaker  stood  out  and  asked 
them  if  they  had  anything  to  say.  The  girl 
stepped  forward,  her  face  without  any  fear,  but 
a  kind  of  noble  pride  in  it,  and  said  :  '  I  am 
ready,  O  king.' 

"  The  Great  Slave  bowed  his  head,  and  was 
thinking  much.  They  asked  him  again,  and  he 
waved  his  hand  at  them.  The  king  spoke  up  in 
anger,  and  then  he  smiled  and  said  :  *  O  king,  I 
am  not  ready  ;  if  I  die,  I  die.'  Then  he  fell  to 
thinking  again.  But  once  more  the  king  spoke : 
*  Thou  shalt  surely  die,  but  not  by  fire,  nor  now ; 


The  Lake  of  the  Great  Slave 


113 


nor  till  we  have  come  to  our  great  camp  in  our 
own  country.  There  thou  shalt  die.  But  the 
woman  shall  die  at  the  going  down  of  the  sun. 
She  shall  die  by  fire^  and  thou  shalt  light  the 
faggots  for  the  burning.* 

"The  Great  Slave  said  he  would  not  do  it, 
not  though  he  should  die  a  hundred  deaths. 
Then  the  king  said  that  it  was  the  woman's  right 
to  choose  who  should  start  the  fire,  and  he  had 
given  his  word,  which  should  not  be  broken. 

"When  the  Great  Slave  heard  this  he  was 
wild  for  a  little,  and  then  he  guessed  altogether 
what  was  in  the  girl's  mind.  Was  not  this  the 
true  thing  in  her,  the  very  truest?  Mais  out/ 
That  was  what  she  wished  —  to  die  by  his 
hand  rather  than  by  any  other;  and  something 
troubled  his  breast,  and  a  cloud  came  in  his 
eyes,  so  that  for  a  moment  he  could  not  see.  He 
looked  at  the  girl,  so  serious,  eye  to  eye.  Per- 
haps she  understood.  So,  after  a  time,  he  got 
calm  as  the  farthest  light  in  the  sky,  his  face 
shining  among  them  all  with  a  look  none  could 
read.  He  sat  down,  and  wrote  upon  pieces  of 
bark  with  a  spear-point — those  bits  of  bark  I 
have  seen  also  at  Fort  O'Glory.  He  pierced 
them  through  with  dried  strings  of  the  slippery- 
elm  tree,  and  with  the  king's  consent  gave  them 
to  the  Company's  man,  who  had  become  one  of 


Jl 


114 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


the  people,  telling  him,  if  ever  he  was  free,  or 
could  send  them  to  the  Company,  he  must  do 
so.  The  man  premised,  and  shame  came  upon 
him  that  he  had  let  the  other  suffer  alone ;  and 
he  said  he  was  willing  to  fight  and  die  if  the 
Great  Slave  gave  the  word.  But  he  would  not ; 
and  he  urged  that  it  was  right  for  the  man  to 
save  his  life.  For  himself,  no.  It  could  never 
be ;  and  if  he  must  die,  he  must  die. 

"You  see,  a  great  man  must  always  live  alone 
and  die  alone,  when  there  are  only  such  people 
about  him.  So,  now  that  the  letters  were  writ- 
ten, he  sat  upon  the  ground  and  thought,  look- 
ing often  towards  the  girl,  who  was  placed  apart 
with  guards  near.  The  king  sat  thinking  also. 
He  could  not  guess  why  the  Great  Slave  should 
give  the  letters  now,  since  he  was  not  yet  to  die, 
nor  could  the  Company's  man  show  a  reason 
when  the  king  asked  him.  So  the  king  waited, 
and  told  the  guards  to  see  that  the  Great  Slave 
should  not  kill  himself. 

"  But  the  queen  wanted  the  death  of  the  girl, 
and  was  glad  beyond  telling  that  the  Slave  must 
light  the  faggots.  She  was  glad  when  she  saw 
the  young  braves  bring  a  long  sapling  from  the 
forest,  and,  digging  a  hole,  put  it  stoutly  in  the 
ground,  and  fetch  wood,  and  heap  it  aboat. 

"  The  Great  Slave  noted  that  the  bark  of  the 


The  Lake  of  the  Great  Slave         1 1 5 

sapling  had  not  been  stripped,  and  more  than 
once  he  measured,  with  his  eye,  the  space  be- 
tween the  stalce  and  the  shores  of  the  Lake  ; 
he  did  this  most  private,  so  that  no  one  saw  but 
the  girl. 

"  At  last  the  time  was  come.  The  Lake  was 
all  rose  and  gold  out  there  in  the  west,  and  the 
water  so  still— so  still.  The  cool,  moist  scent  of 
the  leaves  and  grass  came  out  from  the  woods 
and  up  from  the  plain,  and  the  world  was  so  full 
of  content  that  a  man's  heart  could  cry  out, 
even  as  now,  while  we  look — eh,  is  it  not  good? 
See  the  deer  drinking  on  the  other  shore  there!" 

Suddenly  he  became  silent,  as  if  he  had  for- 
gotten the  story  altogether.  Tybalt  was  impa- 
tient, but  he  did  not  speak.  He  took  a  twig, 
and  in  the  sand  he  wrote  " Charles  Rex''  Pierre 
glanced  down  and  saw  it. 

"There  was  beating  of  the  little  drums,"  he 
continued,  "and  the  crying  of  the  king's  speaker; 
and  soon  all  was  ready,  and  the  people  gathered 
at  a  distance,  and  the  king  and  the  queen,  and 
the  chief  men  nearer ;  and  the  girl  was  brought 
forth. 

"  As  they  led  her  past  the  Great  Slave,  she 
looked  into  his  eyes,  and  afterwards  her  heart 
was  glad,  for  she  knew  that  at  the  last  he  would 
be  near  her,  and  that  his  hand  should  light  the 


"' 


ii6 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


!i       t 


fires.  Two  men  tied  her  to  the  stake.  Then 
the  king's  man  cried  out  again,  telling  of  her 
crime,  and  calling  for  her  death.  The  Great 
Slave  was  brought  near.  No  one  knew  that  the 
palms  of  his  hands  had  been  rubbed  in  the  sand 
for  a  purpose.  When  he  was  brought  beside  the 
stake  a  torch  was  given  him  by  his  guards.  He 
looked  at  the  girl,  and  she  smiled  at  him,  and 
said  :  '  Good-bye.  Forgive.  I  die  not  afraid, 
and  happy.' 

"  He  did  not  answer,  but  stooped  and  lit  the 
sticks  here  and  there.  All  at  once  he  snatched 
a  burning  stick,  and  it  and  the  torch  he  thrust, 
like  lightning,  in  the  faces  of  his  guards,  blind- 
ing them.  Then  he  sprang  to  the  stake,  and, 
with  a  huge  pull,  tore  it  from  the  ground,  girl 
and  all,  and  rushed  to  the  shore  of  the  Lake, 
with  her  tied  so  in  his  arms. 

"  He  had  been  so  swift,  that,  at  first,  no  one 
stirred.  He  reached  the  shore,  rushed  into  the 
water,  dragging  a  boat  out  with  one  hand  as  he 
did  so,  and,  putting  the  girl  in,  seized  a  paddle 
and  was  away  with  a  start.  A  few  strokes,  and 
then  he  stopped,  picked  up  a  hatchet  that  was  in 
the  boat  with  many  spears,  and  freed  the  girl. 
Then  he  paddled  on,  trusting,  with  a  small  hope, 
that  through  his  great  strength  he  could  keep 
on  ahead  till  darkness  came,  and  then,  in  the 


!' 


The  Lake  of  the  Great  Slave 


117 


gloom,  they  might  escape.  The  girl  also  seized 
an  oar,  and  the  canoe — the  king's  own  canoe — 
came  on  like  a  swallow. 

"  But  the  tribe  was  after  tnem  in  fifty  canoes, 
some  coming  straight  along,  some  spreading 
out,  to  close  in  later.  It  was  no  equal  game,  for 
these  people  were  so  quick  and  strong  with  the 
oars,  and  they  were  a  hundred  or  more  to  two. 
There  could  be  but  one  end.  It  was  what  the 
Great  Slave  had  looked  for :  to  fight  till  the  last 
breath.  He  should  fight  for  the  woman  who 
had  risked  all  for  him — just  a  common  woman 
of  the  north,  but  it  seemed  good  to  lose  his 
life  for  her ;  and  she  would  be  happy  to  die  with 
him. 

"  So  they  stood  side  by  side  when  the  spears 
and  arrows  fell  round  them,  and  they  gave  death 
and  wounds  for  wounds  in  their  own  bodies. 
When,  at  last,  the  Indians  climbed  into  the 
canoe,  the  Great  Slave  was  dead  of  many  wounds, 
and  the  woman,  all  gashed,  lay  with  her  lips  to 
his  wet,  red  cheek.  She  smiled  as  they  dragged 
her  away  ;  and  her  soul  hurried  after  his  to  the 
Camp  of  the  Great  Fires." 

It  was  long  before  Tybalt  spoke,  but  at  last 
he  said  :  "  If  I  could  but  tell  it  as  you  have 
told  it  to  me,  Pierre  !" 

Pierre  answered  :  "  Tell  it  with  your  tongue, 


ii8 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


1    •■ 


I 


and  this  shall  be  nothing  to  it,  for  what  am  I  ? 
What  English  have  I,  a  gipsy  of  the  snows  ? 
But  do  not  write  it,  wat's  non!  Writing  wanders 
from  the  matter.  The  eyes,  and  the  tongue, 
and  the  time,  that  is  the  thing.  But  in  a  book! 
— it  will  sound  all  cold  and  thin.  It  is  for  the 
north,  for  the  camp-fire,  for  the  big  talk  before 
a  man  rolls  into  his  blanket,  and  is  at  peace. 
No  1  no  writing,  monsieur.  Speak  it  everywhere 
with  your  tongue." 

"  And  so  I  would,  were  my  tongue  as  yours. 
Pierre,  tell  me  more  about  the  letters  at  Fort 
O'Glory.     You  know  his  name — what  was  it  ? 

"  You  said  five  hundred  dollars  for  one  of 
those  letters.     Is  it  not?" 

"Yes."     Tybalt  had  a  new  hope. 

"T'sh!  What  do  I  want  of  five  hundred 
dollars !  But,  here,  answer  me  a  question  :  Was 
the  lady — his  wife,  she  that  was  left  in  England 
— a  good  woman  ?  Answer  me  out  of  your  own 
sense,  and  from  my  story.  If  you  say  right  you 
shall  have  a  letter — one  that  I  have  by  me." 

Tybalt's  heart  leaped  into  his  throat.  After  a 
little  he  said  huskily  :  "  She  wa«  a  good  woman 
— he  believed  her  that,  and  so  shall  I." 

"  You  think  he  could  not  have  been  so  great 
unless,  eh  ?    And  that  *  Charles  Rex,'  what  of 


him  ? 


II 


'^  A 


The  Lake  of  the  Great  Slave         iig 

"  What  good  can  it  do  to  call  him  bad  now  ?" 
Without  a  word,  Pierre  drew  from  a  leather 
wallet  a  letter,  and,  by  the  light  of  the  fast-set- 
ting sun,  Tybalt  read  it,  then  read  it  again,  and 
yet  again. 

''Poor  soul  I  poor  lady!"  he  said.  "Was 
ever  such  another  letter  written  to  any  man  ? 
And  it  came  too  late ;  this,  with  the  king's  re- 
call, came  too  late  !  " 

"  So— so.  He  died  out  there  where  that  wild 
duck  flies— a  Great  Slave.  Years  after,  the 
Company's  man  brought  word  of  all." 

Tybalt  was  looking  at  the  name  on  the  out- 
side of  the  letter. 

"  How  do  they  call  that  name  ? "  asked 
Pierre.     "  It  is  like  none  I  've  seen — no." 

Tybalt  shook  his  head  sorrowfully,  and  did 
not  answer. 


1 


The  Red  Patrol 

St.  Augustine's,  Canterbury,  had  given  him 
its  licentiate's  hood,  the  Bishop  of  Rupert's 
Land  had  ordained  him,  and  the  north  had 
swallowed  him  up.  He  had  gone  forth  with  sur- 
plice, stole,  hood,  a  sermon-case,  the  prayer- 
book,  and  that  other  book  of  all.  Indian  camps, 
trappers'  huts,  and  Company's  posts  had  given 
him  hospitality,  and  had  heard  him  with  patience 
and  consideration.  At  first  he  wore  the  surplice, 
stole,  and  hood,  took  the  eastward  position,  and 
intoned  the  service,  and  no  man  said  him  nay, 
but  watched  him  curiously  and  was  sorrowful — 
he  was  so  youthful,  clear  of  eye,  and  bent  on 
doing  heroical  things. 

But  little  by  little  there  came  a  change.  The 
hood  was  left  behind  at  Fort  O'Glory,  where  it 
provoked  the  derision  of  the  Methodist  mission- 
ary who  followed  him  ;  the  sermon-case  stayed 
at  Fort  O'Battle  ;  and  at  last  the  surplice  itself 
was  put  by  at  the  Company's  post  at  Yellow  Quill. 
He  was  too  excited  and  in  earnest  at  first  to  see 
the  effect  of  his  ministrations,  but  there  came 

120 


The  Red  Patrol 


121 


slowly  over  him  the  knowledge  that  he  was  talk- 
ing into  space.  He  felt  something  returning  on 
hini  out  of  the  air  into  wliith  he  talked,  and  buf- 
fetting  him.  It  was  the  Spirit  of  the  North,  in 
which  lives  the  awful  natural,  the  large  heart  of 
things,  the  soul  of  the  past.  He  awoke  to  his 
inadequacy,  to  the  fact  that  all  these  men  to 
whom  he  talked,  listened,  and  only  listened,  and 
treated  him  with  a  gentleness  which  was  almost 
pity — as  one  might  a  woman.  He  had  talked 
doctrine,  the  Church,  the  sacraments,  and  at 
Fort  0'13attle  he  faced  definitely  the  futility  of 
his  work.  What  was  to  blame — the  Church — 
religion — himself  ? 

It  was  at  Fort  O'Battle  he  met  Pierre,  that  he 
heard  some  one  say  over  his  shoulder  as  he 
walked  out  into  the  icy  dusk  :  "  The  voice  of  one 
crying  in  the  wilderness.  .  .  .  and  he  had 
sackcloth  about  his  loins,  and  his  food  was  locusts 
and  wild  honey. ^^ 

He  turned  to  see  Pierre,  who  in  the  large 
room  of  the  Post  had  sat  and  watched  him  as  he 
prayed  and  preached.  He  had  remarked  the 
keen,  curious  eye,  the  musing  look,  the  habitual 
disdain  at  the  lips.  It  had  all  touched  him,  con- 
fused him  ;  and  now  he  had  a  kind  of  anger. 

"  You  know  it  so  well,  why  don  't  you  preach 
yourself  ?  "  he  said  feverishly. 


122 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


m 


[h 


\B 


"  I  have  been  preaching  all  my  life,"  Pierre 
answered  drily. 

"The  devil's  games  :  cards  and  law-breaking  ; 
and  you  sneer  at  men  who  try  to  bring  lost  sheep 
into  the  fold." 

"  The  fold  of  the  Church — yes,  I  understand 
all  that,"  Pierre  answered.  "I  have  heard  you 
and  the  priests  of  uiy  father's  Church  talk. 
Which  is  right  ?  Put  as  for  nie,  I  am  a  mis- 
sionary. Cards,  law-breaking — these  are  what  I 
have  done  j  but  these  are  not  what  I  have 
preached." 

"  What  have  you  preached  ?"  asked  the  other, 
walking  on  into  the  fast  gathering  night,  be- 
yond the  Post  and  the  Indian  lodges,  into  the 
wastes  where  frost  and  silence  lived. 

Pierre  waved  his  hand  towards  space. 
"This,"  he  said  suggestively. 

"  What 's  //n's  ?  "  asked  the  other  fretfully. 

"  The  thing  you  feel  round  you  here." 

"  I  feel  the  cold,"  was  the  petulant  reply. 

"I  feel  the  immens.,  the  far  off,"  said  Pierre 
slowly. 

The  other  did  not  understand  as  yet. 
"  You  've  learned  big  words,"  he  said  disdain- 
fully. 

"  No  ;  big  things,"  rejoined  Pierre  sharply — 
"  a  few." 


fif 


'■  ^  'I 


The  Red  Patrol 


123 


"T.ct  me  hear  you  prench  thcin,"  half  snarled 
Sherburne. 

'*  You  will  not  like  to  hear  them — no." 

'*  I  'in  not  likely  to  think  about  them  one 
way  or  another,"  was  the  contemptuous  reply. 

l^ierre's  eyes  half  closed,  'i'he  younu;^,  im- 
petuous, half-baked  c()lleL,'e  man!  To  set  his 
little  knowledi^c  against  his  own  studious  vaga- 
bondage !  At  that  instant  he  determined  to 
play  a  ganie  and  win  ;  to  turn  this  man  into  a 
vagabond  also  ;  to  see  John  the  IJaptist  become 
a  Bedouin.  He  saw  the  doubt,  the  uncertainty, 
the  shattered  vanity  in  the  youth's  mind,  ihe 
missionary's  half  retreat  from  his  cause.  A  cri- 
sis was  at  hand.  The  lad  was  fretful  with  his 
great  theme,  instead  of  being  severe  upon  him- 
self. For  days  and  days  Pierre's  presence  had 
acted  on  Sherburne  silently  but  forcibly.  He 
had  listened  to  the  vagabond's  philosophy,  and 
knew  that  it  was  of  a  deeper — so  much  deeper 
—  knowledge  of  life  than  he  himself  possessed, 
and  he  knew  also  that  it  was  terribly  true  ;  he 
was  not  wise  enough  to  see  it  was  only  true  in 
part.  The  influence  had  been  insidious,  deli- 
cate, cunning,  and  he  himself  was  only  "a  voice 
crying  in  the  wilderness,"  without  the  simple 
creed  of  that  voice.     He  knew  that  the  Meth- 


a 


1 


.    1 


124 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


odist  missionary  was  believed  in  more,  if  less 
liked,  than  himself. 

Pierre  would  work  now  with  all  the  latent 
devilry  of  his  nature  to  unseat  the  man  from 
his  saddle. 

"  You  have  missed  a  great  thing,  alors,  though 
you  have  been  up  here  two  years,"  he  said. 
"  You  do  not  feel ;  you  do  not  know.  What 
good  have  you  done  ?  Who  has  got  on  his 
knees  and  changed  his  life  because  of  you  ? 
Who  has  told  his  beads  or  longed  for  the  Mass 
because  of  you  ?  Tell  me,  who  has  ever  said, 
'  You  have  showed  me  how  to  live '  ?  Even  the 
women,  though  they  cry  sometimes  when  you 
sing-song  your  prayers,  go  on  just  the  same 
when  the  little  *  bless  you'  is  over.  Why  ?  Most 
of  them  know  a  better  thing  than  you  tell  them. 
Here  is  the  truth  :  you  are  little  —  eh,  so  very 
little.  You  never  lied — direct;  you  never  stole 
the  waters  that  are  sweet ;  you  never  knew  the 
big  dreams  that  come  with  wine  in  the  dead  of 
night  ;  you  never  swore  at  your  own  soul  and 
heard  it  laugh  back  at  you  ;  you  never  put  your 
face  in  the  breast  of  a  woman  —  do  not  look  so 
wild  at  me! — you  never  had  a  child;  you 
never  saw  the  world  and  yourself  through  the 
doors  of  real  life.  You  never  have  said,  *  I  am 
tired  ;    I  am  sick  of  all ;    I  have  seen  all.* 


til  i 


The  Red  Patrol 


125 


"You  have  never  felt  what  came  after— under- 
standing.    Chut,  your  talk  is  for  children  —  and 
missionaries.     You  are  a  prophet  without  a  call, 
you  are  a  leader  without  a  man  to  lead,  you  are 
less  than  a  child  up  here.     For  here  the  children 
feel  a  peace  in  their  blood  when  the  stars  come 
out,  and  a  joy  in    their   brains  when  the  dawn 
comes  up  and  reaches  a  yellow  hand  to  the  Pole, 
and  the  west  wind  shouts  at  them.    Holy  Mother! 
we   in   the   far  north,  we  feel   things;   for   all 
the  great  souls  of  the  dead  are  up  there  at  the 
Pole  in  the  pleasant  land,  and  we  have  seen  the 
Scarlet    Hunter   and   the  Kimash  Hills.     You 
have  seen  nothing.     You  have  only  heard,  and 
because,  like  a  child,  you  have  never  sinned, 
you  come  and  preach  to  us  ! " 

The  night  was  folding  down  fast,  all  the  stars 
were  shooting  out  into  their  places,  and  in  the 
north  the  white  lights  of  the  aurora  were  flying 
to  and  fro. 

Pierre  had  spoken  with  a  slow  force  and 
precision,  yet,  as  he  went  on,  his  eyes  almost 
became  fixed  on  those  shifting  flames,  and  a 
deep  look  came  into  them,  as  he  was  moved  by 
his  own  eloquence.  Never  in  his  life  had  he 
made  so  long  a  speech  at  once.  He  paused, 
and  then  said  suddenly  :    "  Come,  let  us  run." 

He  broke  into  a  long,  sliding  trot,  and  Sher- 


il 


iii 


i'' 


126 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


/  ■• 


ill 


1 ' 


burne  did  the  same.  With  their  arras  gathered 
to  their  sides  they  ran  for  quite  two  miles  with- 
out a  word,  until  the  heavy  breathing  of  the 
clergyman  brought  Pierre  up  suddenly. 

"  You  do  not  run  well,"  he  said  ;  "  you  do 
not  run  with  the  whole  body.  You  know  so 
little.  Did  you  ever  think  how  much  such  men 
as  Jacques  Parfaite  know  ?  The  earth  they  read 
like  a  book,  the  sky  like  an  animal's  ways,  and 
a  man's  face  like  —  like  the  writing  on  the  wall." 

"  Like  the  writing  on  the  wall,"  said  Sher- 
burne, musing  ;  for,  under  the  other's  influence, 
his  petulance  was  gone.  He  knew  that  he  was 
not  a  part  of  this  life,  that  he  was  ignorant  of 
it  ;  of,  indeed,  all  that  was  vital  in  it  and  in  men 
and  women. 

"I  think  you  began  this  too  soon.  You 
should  have  waited  ;  then  you  might  have  done 
good.  But  here  we  are  wiser  than  you.  You 
have  no  message — no  real  message — to  give  us ; 
down  in  your  heart  you  are  not  even  sure  of 
yourself." 

Sherburne  sighed.  "  I  'm  of  no  use,"  he 
said  ;  "  I  '11  get  out ;  I  'm  no  good  at  all." 

Pierre's  eyes  glistened.  He  remembered 
how,  the  day  before,  this  youth  had  said  hot 
words  about  his  card-playing  ;  had  called  him 
—  in  effect  —  a  thief ;  had  treated  him  as  an  in- 


.;  i 


The  Red  Patrol 


127 


ferior,  as  became  one  who  was  of  St.  Augustine's, 
Canterbury. 

"  It  is  the  great  thing  to  be  free,"  Pierre  said, 
"  that  no  man  shall  look  for  this  or  that  of  you. 
Just  to  do  as  far  as  you  feel  —  as  far  as  you  are 
sure  —  that  is  the  best.  In  this  you  are  not 
sure  —  no.     Hcin^  is  it  not  ?" 

Sherburne  did  not  answer.  Anger,  distrust, 
wretchedness,  the  spirit  of  the  alien,  loneliness, 
were  alive  in  him.  The  magnetism  of  this  deep, 
penetrating  man,  possessed  of  a  devil,  was  on 
him,  and  in  spite  of  every  reasonable  instinct 
he  turned  to  him  for  companionship. 

"It's  been  a  failure,"  he  burst  out,  "and 
I'm  sick  of  it — sick  of  it  ;  but  I  can't  give  it 
up." 

Pierre  said  nothing.  They  had  come  to  what 
seemed  a  vast  semicircle  of  ice  and  snow  —  a 
huge  amphitheatre  in  the  plains.  It  was  won- 
derful :  a  great  round  wall  on  which  the  north- 
ern lights  played,  into  which  the  stars  peered. 
It  was  open  towards  the  north,  and  in  one  side 
was  a  fissure  shaped  like  a  gothic  arch.  Pierre 
pointed  to  it,  and  they  did  not  speak  till  they 
had  passed  through  it.  Like  great  seats  the 
steppes  of  snow  ranged  round,  and  in  the  center 
was  a  kind  of  plateau  of  ice,  as  it  might  seem  a 
stage  or  an  altar.   To  the  north  there  was  a  huge 


I     J 


128 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


1 


<:  f,    I 


I  I 


opening,  the  lost  arc  of  the  circle,  through 
which  the  mystery  of  the  Pole  swept  in  and  out, 
or  brooded  there  where  no  man  may  question 
it.  Pierre  stood  and  looked.  Time  and  again 
he  had  been  here,  and  had  asked  the  same  ques- 
tion :  Who  had  ever  sat  on  those  frozen  benches 
and  looked  down  at  the  drama  on  that  stage  be- 
low ?  Who  played  the  parts  ?  was  it  a  farce  or 
a  sacrifice  ?  To  him  had  been  given  the  sorrow 
of  imagination,  and  he  wondered  and  wondered. 
Or  did  they  come  still  —  those  strange  people, 
whoever  they  were — and  watch  ghostly  gladia- 
tors at  their  fatal  sport  ?  If  they  came,  when 
was  it  ?  Perhaps  they  were  there  now,  unseen. 
In  spite  of  himself  he  shuddered.  Who  was  the 
keeper  of  the  house  ? 

Through  his  mind  there  ran — pregnant  to 
him  for  the  first  time — a  chanson  of  the  Scarlet 
Hunter,  the  Red  Patrol.,  who  guarded  the  sleepers 
in  the  Kimash  Hills  against  the  time  they  should 
awake  and  possess  the  land  once  more:  the  friend 
of  the  lost,  the  lover  of  the  vagabond,  and  of  all 
who  had  no  home  : 


•'  Strangers  come  to  the  outer  walls — 
( IV/iy  do  the  sleepers  stir  f) 

Strangers  enter  the  Judgment  House — 
( Why  do  the  sleepers  sigh  ?) 

Slow  they  rise  in  their  judgment  seats, 


The  Red  Patrol  129 

Sieve  and  measure  the  naked  souls, 
Then  with  a  blessing  return  to  sleep — 

{Quiet  the  Judi^f/ient  House.) 
Lone  and  sick  are  the  vagrant  souls — 

{VVheji  shall  the  world  come  home  ?)" 

He  reflected  upon  the  words,  and  a  feeling  of 
awe  came  over  him,  for  he  had  been  in  the  White 
Valley  and  had  seen  the  Scarlet  Hunter.  But 
there  came  at  once  also  a  sinister  desire  to  play 
a  game  for  this  man's  life-work  here.  He  knew 
that  the  other  was  ready  for  any  wild  move ; 
there  was  upon  him  the  sense  of  failure  and  dis- 
gust ;  he  was  acted  on  by  the  magic  of  the 
night,  the  terrible  delight  of  the  scene,  and  that 
might  be  turned  to  advantage. 

He  said  :  "  Am  I  not  right  ?  There  is  some- 
thing in  the  world  greater  than  the  creeds  and 
the  book  of  the  Mass.  To  be  free  and  to  enjoy, 
that  is  the  thing.  Never  before  have  you  felt 
what  you  feel  here  now.  And  I  will  show  you 
more.  I  will  teach  you  how  to  know,  I  will  lead 
you  through  all  the  north  and  make  you  to 
understand  the  big  things  of  life.  Then,  when 
you  have  known,  you  can  return  if  you  will.  But 
now — see  :  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  Here 
on  this  great  platform  we  will  play  a  game  of 
cards.  There  is  a  man  whose  life  I  can  ruin. 
If  you  win  I  promise  to  leave  him  safe,  and  to 


^ 


130 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


1    I 


i     ' 


I-     !f 


go  out  of  the  far  north  forever,  to  go  back  to 
Quebec" — he  had  a  kind  of  gaining  fever  in  his 
veins.  "  If  I  win,  you  give  up  the  Church,  leav- 
ing behind  the  prayer-book,  the  Bible  and  all, 
coming  with  me  to  do  what  I  shall  tell  you,  for 
the  passing  of  twelve  moons.  It  is  a  great  stake 
— will  you  play  it  ?  Come  " — he  leaned  for- 
ward, looking  into  the  other's  face — "  will  you 
play  it  ?  They  drew  lots — those  people  in  the 
Bible.  We  will  draw  lots,  and  see,  eh  ? — and 
see  ?  " 

"  I  accept  the  stake,"  said  Sherburne,  with  a 
little  gasp. 

Without  a  word  they  went  upon  that  plat- 
form, shaped  like  an  altar,  and  Pierre  at  once 
drew  out  a  pack  of  cards,  shuffling  them  with  his 
mittened  hands.  Then  he  knelt  down  and  said, 
as  he  laid  out  the  cards  one  by  one  till  there 
were  thirty:  "Whoever  gets  the  ace  of  hearts 
first,  wins  —  /ici/i  ?  " 

Sherburne  nodded  and  knelt  also.  The  cards 
lay  back  upward  in  three  rows.  For  a  moment 
neither  stirred.  The  white,  metallic  stars  saw  it, 
the  small  crescent  moon  beheld  it,  and  the  deep 
wonder  of  night  made  it  strange  and  dreadful. 
Once  or  twice  Sherburne  looked  round  as  though 
he  felt  others  present,  and  once  Pierre  looked 
out  to  the  wide  portals,  as  though  he  saw  some 


The  Red  Patrol 


131 


one  entering.  But  there  was  nothing  to  the  eye 
— nothing.     Presently  Pierre  said  :  ''Begin." 

The  other  drew  a  card,  then  Pierre  drew  one, 
then  the  other,  then  Pierre  again  ;  and  so  on. 
How  slow  the  game  was  !  Neither  hurried,  but 
both,  kneeling,  looked  and  looked  at  the  card 
long  before  drawing  and  turning  it  over.  The 
stake  was  weighty,  and  Pierre  loved  the  game 
more  than  he  cared  about  the  stake.  Sherburne 
cared  nothing  about  the  game,  but  all  his 
soul  seemed  set  upon  the  hazard.  There  was 
not  a  sound  out  of  the  night,  nothing  stirring 
but  the  Spirit  of  the  North.  Twenty,  twenty- 
five  cards  were  drawn,  and  then   Pierre  paused. 

"  In  a  minute  all  will  be  settled,"  he  said. 
"  Will  you  go  on,  or  will  you  pause  ?  " 

But  Sherburne  had  got  the  madness  of  chance 
in  his  veins  now,  and  he  said  :  "  Quick,  quick, 
go  on  1  " 

Pierre  drew,  but  the  great  card  held  back. 
Sherburne  drew,  then  Pieire  again.  There  were 
three  left.  Sherburne's  face  was  as  white  as  the 
snow  around  him.  His  mouth  was  open,  and  a 
little  white  cloud  of  frosted  breath  came  out. 
His  hand  hungered  for  the  card,  drew  back,  then 
seized  it.  A  moan  broke  from  him.  Then 
Pierre,  with  a  little  weird  laugh,  reached  out  and 
turned  over — the  ace  of  hearts. 


I, 


132 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


I 


h' 


t'  y 


They  both  stood  up.  Pierre  put  the  cards  in 
his  pocket. 

"  You  have  lost,"  he  said. 

Sherburne  threw  back  his  head  with  a  reck- 
less laugh.  The  laugh  seemed  to  echo  and  echo 
through  the  amphitheatre,  and  then  from  the 
frozen  seats,  the  hillocks  of  ice  and  snow,  there 
was  a  long,  low  sound,  as  of  sorrow,  and  a  voice 
came  after : 

"  S/ec/}  —  s/crp  /  Blessed  be  the  just  and  the 
keepers  cf  vows.'* 

Sherburne  stood  shaking  as  though  he  had 
seen  a  host  of  spirits.  His  eyes  on  the  great 
seats  of  judgment,  he  said  to  Pierre  : 

"See!  see!  how  they  sit  there!  grey  and 
cold  and  awful ! " 

But  Pierre  shook  his  head, 

"There  is  nothing,"  he  said,  "nothing," 
yet  he  knew  that  Sherburne  was  looking  upon 
the  men  of  judgment  of  the  Kimash  Kills,  the 
sleepers.  He  looked  round  half  fearfully,  for 
if  here  were  those  great  children  of  the  ages, 
where  was  the  keeper  of  the  house,  the  Red 
Patrol  ? 

Even  as  he  thought,  a  figure  in  scarlet  with  a 
noble  face  and  a  high  pride  of  bearing  stood 
before  them,  not  far  away.  Sherburne  clutched 
his  arm. 


p' 


The  Red  Patrol 


133 


Then   the    Red    Patrol,    the   Scarlet  Hunter, 
spoke  : 

"  Why  have  you  sinned  your  sins  and  bro- 
ken your  vows  within  our  house  of  judgment  ? 
Know  ye  not  that  in  the  new  springtime  of  the 
world  ye  shall  be  outcast,  because  ye  have  called 
the  sleepers  to  judgment  befM  c  their  time? 
But  I  am  the  hunter  of  the  lost.  Go  you,"  he 
said  to  Sherburne,  pointing,  "  where  a  sick  man 
lies  in  a  hut  in  the  Shikam  Valley  In  his  soul 
find  thine  own  again."  Then  to  Pierre  :  "  For 
thee,  thou  shalt  know  the  desert  and  the  storm 
and  the  lonely  hills  ;  thou  shalt  neither  seek  nor 
find.     Go,  and  return  no  more." 

The  two  men,  Sherburne  falteringly,  stepped 
down  and  moved  to  the  open  plain.  They 
turned  at  the  great  entrance  and  looked  back. 
Where  they  had  stood  there  rested  on  his  long 
bow  the  Red  Patrol.  He  raised  it,  and  a  flam- 
ing arrow  flew  through  the  sky  toward  the 
south.  They  followed  its  course,  and  when  they 
looked  back  a  little  afterward  the  great  judg- 
ment -  house  was  empty  and  the  whole  north 
was  silent  as  the  sleepers. 

At  dawn  they  came  to  the  hut  in  the 
Shikam  Valley,  and  there  they  found  a  trapper 
dying.  He  had  sinned  greatly,  and  he  could 
not  die  without  some  one  to  show   him   how, 


134 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


p  i    i 


to  tell  him  what  to  say  to  the  angel  of  the  cross- 
roads. 

Sherburne,  kneeling  by  him,  filt  his  own 
new  soul  moved  by  a  holy  fire,  and,  first  praying 
for  himself,  he  said  to  the  sick  man  :  "  J^or  if 
we  confess  our  sins,  He  is  faithful  and  Just  to  for- 
give us  our  sins,  and  to  cleanse  us  from  all  un- 
righteousness.^^ 

Praying  for  both,  his  heart  grew  strong,  and 
he  heard  the  sick  man  say,  ere  he  journeyed 
forth  to  the  cross-roads  : 

"You  have  shown  me  the  way;  I  have 
peace." 

"  Speak  for  me  in  the  Presence,"  said  Sher- 
burne, softly. 

The  dying  man  could  not  answer,  but  that 
moment,  as  he  journeyed  forth  on  the  Far  Trail, 
he  held  Sherburne's  hand. 


\  I  :') 


W,  i 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan 

«*  Why  don't  she  come  back,  father  ?" 

The  man  shook  his  head,  his  hand  fumbled 
with  the  wolfskin  robe  covering  the  child,  and 
he  made  no  reply. 

"She'd  come  if  she  knew  I  was  hurted, 
would  n't  she  ?  " 

The  father  nodded,  and  then  turned  rest- 
lessly toward  the  door,  as  though  expecting 
some  one.  The  look  was  troubled,  and  the  pipe 
he  held  was  not  alight,  though  he  made  a  pre- 
tence of  smoking. 

"  Suppose  the  wildcat  had  got  me,  she  'd  be 
sorry  when  she  comes,  would  n't  she  ?  " 

There  was  no  reply  yet,  save  by  gesture,  the 
language  of  primitive  man  ;  but  the  big  body 
shivered  a  little,  and  the  uncouth  hand  felt  for 
a  place  in  the  bed  where  the  lad's  knee  made  a 
lump  under  the  robe.  He  felt  the  little  heap 
tenderly,  but  the  child  winced. 

"S-sh,  but  that  hurts!  This  wolf-skin's 
most  too  mur.h  on  me,  is  n't  it,  father  ?" 

The  man  softly,  yet  awkwardly  too,  lifted  the 

135 


136 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


f  h«>, 


r.'  *. 


robe,  folded  it  l)ark,  and  slowly  uncovered  the 
knee.  The  lei(  was  worn  away  almost  to  skin 
and  bone,  but  the  knee  itself  was  swollen  with 
innanimation.  He  bathed  it  with  some  water, 
mixed  with  vinegar  and  herbs,  then  drew  down 
the  deer-skin  shirt  at  the  child's  shoulder,  and 
did  the  same  with  it.  Jloth  shoulder  and  knee 
bore  the  marks  of  teeth  —  where  a  huge  wild- 
cat had  made  havoc — and  the  body  had  long 
red  scratches. 

Presently  the  man  shook  his  head  sorrow- 
fully, and  covered  up  the  small  disfigured  frame 
again,  but  this  time  with  a  tanned  skin  of  the 
caribou.  The  flames  of  the  huge  wood  fire 
dashed  the  walls  and  floor  with  a  velvety  red  and 
black,  and  the  large  iron  kettle,  bought  of  the 
Company  at  Fort  Sacrament,  puffed  out  geysers 
of  steam. 

The  place  was  a  low  hut  w'th  parchment 
windows  and  rough  mud-mortar  lumped  between 
the  logs.  Skins  hung  along  two  sides,  with 
bullet-holes  and  knife-holes  showing :  of  the 
great  grey  wolf,  the  red  puma,  the  bronze  hill- 
lion,  the  beaver,  the  bear,  and  the  sable;  and 
in  one  corner  was  a  huge  pile  of  them.  Bare 
of  the  usual  comforts  as  the  room  was,  it  had  a 
sort  of  refinement  also,  joined  to  an  incxpress- 


t 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan        137 


iblc  loneliness;  you  could  scarce  have  told  how 
or  why. 

*'  Father,"  said  the  boy,  his  face  pinched  with 
pain  for  a  moment,  "it  hurts  so,  all  over,  every 
once  in  a  while." 

His  fingers  caressed  the  leg  just  below  the 
knee. 

"  Father,"  he  suddenly  added,  "  what  does  it 
mean  when  you  hear  a  bird  sing  in  the  middle 
of  the  night?" 

The  woodsman  looked  down  anxiously  into 
the  boy's  face.  "It  hasn't  no  meaning,  Domi- 
nique. There  ain  't  such  a  thing  on  the  Labra- 
dor Heights  as  a  bird  singin'  in  the  night. 
Thn' 's  only  in  warm  countries  where  there's 
nightingales.     So  —  bicn  sur .' " 

The  boy  had  a  wise,  dreamy,  speculative 
look.  "Well,  I  guess  it  was  a  nightingale — it 
didn't  sing  like  any  I  ever  heard." 

The  look  of  nervousness  deepened  in  the 
woodman's  face.  "What  did  it  sing  like,  Dom- 
inique ?" 

"  So  it  made  you  shiver.  You  wanted  it  to 
go  on,  and  yet  you  did  n't  want  it.  It  was  pretty, 
but  you  felt  as  if  something  was  going  to  snap 
inside  of  you." 

"  When  did  you  hear  it,  my  son  ?  " 


f 


U' 


h 


t 


r  ! 


' 


\\\ 


■  ■) 


138 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


"Twice  last  night — and  —  and  I  guess  it 
was  Sunday  the  other  time.  I  do  n*t  know,  for 
there  has  n't  been  no  Sunday  up  here  since 
mother  went  away  —  has  there  ?" 

"  Mebbe  not." 

The  veins  were  beating  like  live  cords  in  the 
man's  throat  and  at  his  temples. 

"'Twas  just  the  same  as  Father  Corraine 
bein'  here,  when  mother  had  Sunday,  wasn't 
it?" 

The  man  made  no  reply  ;  but  a  gloom  drew 
down  his  forehead,  and  his  lips  doubled  in  as  if 
he  endured  physical  pain.  He  got  to  his  fcec 
and  paced  Ine  floor.  For  weeks  he  had  listened 
to  the  same  kind  of  talk  from  this  wounded, 
and,  as  he  thought,  dying  son,  and  he  was  get- 
ting less  and  less  able  to  bear  it.  The  boy  at 
nine  years  of  age  was,  in  manner  of  speech,  the 
merest  child,  but  his  thoughts  were  sometimes 
large  and  wise.  The  only  white  child  within  a 
compass  of  a  thousand  miles  or  so  ;  the  lonely 
life  of  the  hills  and  plains,  so  austere  in  winter, 
so  melted  to  a  sober  joy  in  sumnier  ;  listening 
to  the  talk  of  his  elders  at  camp-fires  and  on  the 
hunting-trail,  when,  even  as  an  infant  almost, 
he  was  swung  in  a  blanket  from  a  tree  or  was 
packed  in  the  torch-crane  of  a  canoe  ;  and  more 
than  all,  the  care  of  a  good,  loving — if  passion- 


'  '» 


i 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan        139 

ate — little  mother  :  all  these  had  made  him  far 
wiser  than  his  years.  He  had  been  hours  upon 
hours  each  day  alone  with  the  birds,  and  squir- 
rels, and  wild  animals,  and  something  of  the 
keen  scent  and  instinct  of  the  animal  world  had 
entered  into  his  body  and  brain,  so  that  he  felt 
what  he  could  not  understand. 

He  saw  that  he  had  worried  his  father,  and  it 
troubled  him.     He  thought  of  something. 

"Daddy,"  he  said,  "let  me  have  it." 

A  smile  struggled  for  life  in  the  hunter's  face, 
as  he  turned  to  the  wall  and  took  down  the  skin 
of  a  silver  fox.  He  held  it  on  his  palm  for  a 
moment,  looking  at  it  in  an  interested,  satisfied 
way,  then  he  brought  it  over  and  put  it  into  the 
child's  hands  ;  and  the  smile  now  shaped  itself, 
as  he  saw  an  eager  pale  face  buried  in  the  soft 
fur. 

"  Good  !  good  !  "  he  said  involuntarily. 
^^  Bon  f  bo?i/^^  said  the  boy's  voice  from  the 
fur,  in  the  language  of  his  mother,  who  added 
a  strain    jf    Indian  blood    to  her   French  an- 
cestry. 

The  two  sat  there,  the  man  half-kneeling  on 
the  low  bed,  and  stroking  the  fur  very  gently. 
It  could  scarcely  be  thought  that  such  pride 
should  be  spent  on  a  little  pelt,  by  a  mere 
backwoodsman  and  his  nine-year-old  son.     One 


II 


.1 


h ) 


140 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


V 


M 


has  seen  a  woman  fingering  a  splendid  neck- 
lace, her  eyes  fascinated  by  the  bunch  of  warm, 
de^p  jewels — a  light  not  of  mere  vanity,  or  hun- 
ger, or  avarice  in  her  face — only  the  love  of  the 
beautiful  thing.  But  this  was  an  animal's  skin. 
Did  they  feel  the  animal  underneath  it  yet,  giv- 
ing it  beauty,  life,  glory  ? 

The  silver-fox  ;kin  is  the  prize  of  the  north, 
and  this  one  was  of  the  boy's  own  harvesting. 
While  his  father  was  away  he  saw  the  fox  creep- 
ing by  the  hut.  The  joy  of  the  hunter  seized 
him,  and  guided  his  eye  over  the  "  sights "  of 
his  father's  rifle  as  he  rested  the  barrel  on  the 
window-sill,  and  the  animal  was  his  !  Now  his 
finger  ran  into  the  hole  made  by  the  bullet,  and 
he  gave  a  little  laugh  of  modest  triumph.  Min- 
utes passed  as  they  studied,  felt,  and  admired 
the  skin,  the  hunter  proud  of  his  son,  the  son 
alive  with  a  primitive  passion,  which  inflicts 
suffering  to  get  the  beautiful  thing.  Perhaps 
the  tenderness  as  well  as  the  wild  passion  of  the 
animal  gets  into  the  hunter's  blood,  and  tips  his 
fingers  at  times  with  an  exquisite  kindness — as 
one  has  noted  in  a  lion  fondling  her  young, 
or  in  tigers  as  they  sport  upon  the  sands  of  the 
desert.  This  boy  had  seen  his  father  shoot  a 
splendid  moose,  and,  as  it  lay  dying,  drop  down 
and  kiss  it  in  the  neck  for  sheer  love  of  its  hand- 


'6;   ;';? 


■V*. 


.i 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan        141 

soraeness.     Death  is  no  insult.     It  is  the  hivv  of 
the  primitive  world — war,  and  love  in  war. 

They  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  not  speaking, 
each  busy  in  his  own  way  :  the  boy  full  of  imag- 
inings, strange,  half-heathen,  half-angelic  feel- 
ings ;  the  man  roaming  in  that  savage,  romantic, 
superstitious  atmosphere  which  belongs  to  the 
north,  and  to  the  north  alone.  At  last  the  boy 
lay  back  on  the  pillow,  his  finger  still  in  the 
bullet-hole  of  the  pelt.  His  eyes  closed,  and  he 
seemed  about  to  fall  asleep,  but  presently  looked 
up  and  whispered :  "  I  have  n't  said  my  prayers, 
have  I  ? " 

The  father  shook  his  head  in  a  sort  of  rude 
confusion. 

"I  can  pray  out  loud  if  I  want  to,  can't  I  ?" 

"  Of  course,  Dominique."  The  man  shrank 
a  little. 

'*!  forget  a  good  many  times,  but  I  know 
one  all  right,  for  I  said  it  when  the  bird  was 
singing.  It  is  n't  one  out  of  the  book  Father 
Corraine  sent  mother  by  Pretty  Pierre ;  it 's  one 
she  taught  me  out  of  her  own  head.  P'r'aps  I  'd 
better  say  it." 

"  P'r'aps,  if  you  want  to."  The  voice  was 
husky. 

The  boy  began  : ' 

"  O  bon  Jesu,  who  died  to  save  us  from  our 


( 


1  ' 


, 


'I' 


'  1 1: 


i! 


i    4 


142 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


I. 


"¥    \ 


V     1 


!!',!( 


;K- 


'\'l\\i  ^ 


sins,  and  to  lead  us  to  Thy  country,  where  there 
is  no  cold,  nor  hunger,  nor  thirst,  and  where  no 
one  is  afraid,  listen  to  Thy  child.  .  .  .  When 
the  great  winds  and  rains  come  down  from  the 
hills,  do  not  let  the  floods  drown  us,  nor  the 
woods  cover  us,  nor  the  snow-slide  bury  us,  and 
do  not  let  the  prairie-fires  burn  us.  Keep  wild 
beasts  from  killing  us  in  our  sleep,  and  give  us 
good  hearts  that  we  may  not  kill  them  in 
anger." 

His  finger  twisted  involuntarily  into  the  bul- 
let-hole in  the  pelt,  and  he  paused  a  moment. 

"  Keep  us  from  getting  lost,  O  gracious  Sa- 


vior 


>> 


Again  there  was  a  pause,  his  eyes  opened 
wide,  and  he  said  : 

•'  Do  you  think  mother  's  lost,  father  ?" 

A  heavy  broken  breath  came  from  the  father, 
and  he  replied  haltingly  :  "  Mebbe,  mebbe  so." 

Dominique's  eyes  closed  again.  "  I  '11  make 
up  some,"  he  said  slowly:  "And  if  mother's 
lost,  bring  her  back  again  to  us,  for  everything's 


gomg  wrong. 


Again  he  paused,  then  went  on  with  the  pray-er 
as  it  had  been  taught  him. 

"  Teach  us  to  hear  Thee  whenever  Thou  call- 
est,  and  to  see  Thee  when  Thou  visitest  us,  and 
let  the  blessed  Mary  and  all  the  saints  speak 


i»». '- 


>» 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan        143 

often  to  Thee  for  us.  O  Christ,  hear  us.  Lord 
have  mercy  upon  us.  Christ,  have  mercy  upon 
us.     Amen." 

Making  the  sign  of  the  cross,   he  lay  back, 
and  said  :  "  I  '11  go  to  sleep  now,  I  guess." 

The  man  sat  for  a  long  time  looking  at  the 
pale,  shining  face,  at  the  blue  veins  showing 
painfully  dark  on  the  temples  and  forehead, 
at  the  firm  little  white  hand,  which  was  as  brown 
as  a  butternut  a  few  weeks  before.  The  longer 
he  sat,  the  deeper  did  his  misery  sink  into  his 
soul.  His  wife  had  gone  he  knew  not  where, 
his  child  was  wasting  to  death,  and  he  had  for 
his  sorrows  no  inner  consolation.  He  had  ever 
had  that  touch  of  mystical  imagination  insep- 
arable from  the  far  north,  yet  he  had  none  of 
that  religious  belief  which  swallowed  up  natural 
awe  and  turned  it  to  the  refining  of  life,  and  to 
the  advantage  of  a  man's  soul.  Now  it  was 
forced  in  upon  him  that  his  child  was  wiser  than 
himself;  wiser  and  safer.  His  life  had  been 
spent  in  the  wastes,  with  rough  deeds  and  rug- 
ged habits,  and  a  youth  of  hardship,  danger, 
and  almost  savage  endurance  had  given  him  a 
half-barbarian  temperament,  which  could  strike 
an  angry  blow  at  one  moment  and  fondle  to 
death  at  the  next. 

When  he  married  sweet  Lucette  Barbond  his 


1.' 


i 

V. 


it    . 
f 


f     I- 

(.1 


f 


!■ 


'    I 


'i 


\ 


144 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


r  't' 


i,tj 


religion  reached  little  farther  than  a  belief  in 
the  Scarlet  Hunter  of  the  Kiniash  Hills  and 
those  voices  that  could  be  heard  calling  in  the 
night,  till  their  time  of  sleep  be  past  and  they 
should  rise  and  reconquer  the  north. 

Not  even  Father  Corraine,  whose  ways  were 
like  those  of  his  Master,  could  ever  bring  him 
to  a  more  definite  faith.  His  wife  had  at  first 
striven  with  him,  mourning  yet  loving.  Some- 
times the  savage  in  him  had  broken  out  over  the 
little  creature,  merely  because  barbaric  tyranny 
was  in  him  —  torture  followed  by  the  passionate 
kiss.  But  how  was  she  philosopher  enough  to 
understand  the  cause  1 

When  she  fled  from  their  hut  one  bitter  day, 
as  he  roared  some  wild  words  at  her,  it  was  be- 
cause her  nerves  had  all  been  shaken  from 
threatened  death  by  wild  beasts  (of  this  he  did 
not  know),  and  his  violence  drove  her  mad. 
She  had  ran  oi't  of  the  house,  and  on,  and  on, 
and  on  —  and  she  l^ad  never  come  back.  That 
was  weeks  ago,  and  ti-cre  had  been  no  word  nor 
sign  of  her  since.  Tiie  man  was  now  busy  with 
it  all,  in  a  slow,  cumbrous  way.  A  nature  more 
to  be  touched  by  things  seen  than  by  things 
told,  his  mind  was  being  awakened  in  a  massive 
kind  of  fashion.  He  was  viewinar  this  crisis  of 
his  life  as  one  sees  a  human   face  in  the  wide 


MM 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan        145 

searching  light  of  a  great  fire.  He  was  restless, 
but  he  held  himself  still  by  a  strong  effort,  not 
wishing  to  disturb  the  sleeper.  His  eyes  seemed 
to  retreat  farther  and  farther  back  under  his 
shaggy  brows. 

The  great  logs  in  the  chimney  burned  bril- 
liantly, and  a  brass  crucifix  over  the  child's  head 
now  and  airain  reflected  soft  little  flashes  of 
light.  This  caught  the  hunter's  eye.  Presently 
there  grew  up  in  him  a  vague  kind  of  hope  that, 
somehow,  this  symbol  would  bring  him  luck  — 
that  was  the  way  he  put  it  to  himself.  He  hr  d 
felt  this  —  and  something  more — when  Domi- 
nique prayed.  Somehow,  Dominique's  prayer 
was  the  only  one  he  had  ever  heard  that  had 
gone  home  to  him,  had  opened  up  the  big 
sluices  of  his  nature,  and  let  the  light  of  God 
flood  in.  No,  there  was  another  :  the  one  Lu- 
cette  made  on  the  day  that  they  were  married, 
when  a  wonderful  timid  reverence  played 
through  his  hungry  love  for  her. 

Hours  passed.  All  at  once,  without  any  other 
motion  or  gesture,  the  boy's  eyes  opened  wide 
with  a  strange,  intense  look. 

"  Father,"  he  said  slowly,  and  in  a  kind  of 
dream,  "when  you  hear  a  sweet  horn  blow  at 
night,  is  it  the  Scarlet  Hunter  calling  ?" 

"P'r'aps.     Why,  Dominique?"      He  made 


i   \ 


f: 


'    V  .i. 


if, 


'    r 


• « 


146 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


M 


ri 


•1 


( 


1 


ii ' 


j 


1 1. 


up  his  mind  to  humor  the  boy,  though  it  gave 
him  strange  aching  forebodings.  He  had  seen 
grown  men  and  women  with  these  fancies  —  and 
they  had  died. 

"I  heard  one  blowing  just  now,  and  the 
sounds  seemed  to  wave  over  my  head.  Perhaps 
he  's  calling  some  one  that's  lost." 

"  Mebbe." 

*-And  I  heard  a  voice  singing  —  it  wasn't  a 
bird  to-night." 

"  There  was  no  voice,  Dominique." 

"Yes,  yes."  There  was  something  fine  in 
thegrave,  courteous  certainty  of  the  lad.  "IwaKed, 
and  you  were  sitting  there  thinking,  and  I  shut 
my  eyes  again,  and  I  neard  the  voice.  I  remem- 
ber the  tune  and  the  words." 

"What  were  the  words  ?"      In   spite  of  him- 
self the  hunter  felt  awed. 

"  I  've  heard  mother  sing  them,  or  something 
most  like  them  : 

"Why  does  the   fire  no  longer  burn  ? 

(I  am  so  lonely.) 
Why  does  the  tent -door  swing  outward  ? 

(I  have  nj  home.) 
0%  let  me  breathe  hard  in  your  face  ! 

(I   an'    so  lonely.) 
Oh,  why  do  you  shut  your  eyes  to  me  ? 

(I  have  no  home.)" 


»-♦ 


li 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan        147 

The  boy  paused. 

"Was  that  all,  Doniinique  ?" 

"No,  not  all." 

"  Let  us  make  friends  wiili  the  stars ; 

(I   am   so  lonely.) 
Give  me  your  hand,   I   will  hold   it. 

(I  have  no  home.) 
Let   us  ^o  hunting   toj^cther. 

(I   am    so  lonely.) 
We  will  sleep  at  God's  camp  to-night. 

(I  have   no  home.)" 

Dominique  did  not  sing,  but  recited  the  words 
with  a  sort  of  chanting  inflection. 

"  What  does  it  mean  when  you  hear  a  voice 
like  that,  father?" 

"I  don't  know.  Who  told — your  mother — 
the  song  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  she  just 
made  them  up — she  and  God.  .  .  .  There ! 
There  it  is  again  ?  Don't  you  hear  it — don't 
you  hear  it,  daddy  ?  " 

"No,  Dominique,  it's  only  the  kettle  sing- 
ing." 

"A  kettle  isn't  a  voice.  Daddy  — "  He 
paused  a  little,  then  went  on,  hesitatingly:  "I 
saw  a  white  swan  fly  through  the  door  over  your 
shoulder  when  you  came  in  to-night." 


i 


U 


148 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


I  m 


I 


"No,  no,  Dominique,  it  was  a  flurry  of  snow 
blowing  over  my  shoulder." 

"  liut  it  looked  at  me  with  two  shining  eyes." 

"  That  was  two  stars  shining  through  the 
door,  Hiy  son." 

"How  could  there  be  snow  flying  and  stars 
shining  too,  father?" 

"It  was  just  drift-snow  on  a  light  wind,  but 
the  stars  were  shining  above,  Domini(|ue." 

The  man's  voice  was  anxious  and  unconvinc- 
ing, his  eyes  had  a  hungry,  hunted  look.  The 
legend  of  the  White  Swan  had  to  do  with  the 
passing  of  a  human  soul.  The  swan  had  come 
in — would  it  go  out  alone?  He  touched  the 
boy's  hand — it  was  hot  with  fever;  he  felt  the 
pulse — it  ran  high  ;  he  watched  the  face — it  had 
a  glowing  light.  Something  stirred  with  him, 
and  passed  like  a  wave  to  the  farthest  course  of 
his  being.  Through  his  misery  he  had  touched 
the  garment  of  the  Master  of  Souls.  As  though 
a  voice  said  to  him  there,  "Someone  hath 
touched  me,"  he  got  to  his  feet,  and,  with  a  sud- 
den blind  humility,  lit  two  candles,  placed  them 
on  a  shelf  in  a  corner  before  a  porcelain  figure 
of  the  Virgin,  as  he  had  seen  his  wife  do.  Then 
he  picked  a  small  handful  of  fresh  spruce  twigs 
from  a  branch  over  the  chimney,  and  laid  them 
beside  the  candles.   After  a  short  pause  he  came 


)/ 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan        149 


)> 


"hen 
wigs 
hem 
;ame 


slowly  to  the  head  of  the  boy's  bed.  Very  sol- 
emnly he  touched  the  toot  of  the  Christ  on  the 
cross  with  the  tips  of  his  fmi^ers,  and  brought 
them  to  his  lips  with  an  indescribable  reverence. 
After  a  moment,  standing  with  eyes  fixed  on  the 
face  of  the  crucified  figure,  he  said,  in  a  shaking 
voice : 

**  Pardon,  hon  Jcsu  !  Sauvcs  mon  enfant  /  Ne 
me  laisscz  pas  scul!  "  * 

The  boy  looked  up  with  eyes  again  grown 
unnaturally  heavy,  and  said  : 

"  Amen  1  .  .  .  Bon  Jcsu  I  .  .  ,  Encore  / 
Encore ,  mon  pcrc  I " 

The  boy  slept.  The  father  stood  still  by  the 
bed  for  a  time,  but  at  last  slowly  turned  and  went 
toward  the  fire. 

Outside,  two  figures  were  approaching  the 
h'lt — a  man  and  a  woman  ;  yet  at  first  glance  the 
man  n^ight  easily  have  been  taken  for  a  woman, 
because  of  the  long  black  robe  which  he  wore, 
and  because  his  hair  fell  loose  on  his  shoulders 
and  his  face  was  clean-shaven. 

"Have  patience,  my  daughter,"  said  the 
man.  "Do  not  enter  till  I  call  you.  But  stand 
close  to  the  door,  if  you  will,  ana  hear  all." 

So  saying  he  raised  his  hand  as  in  a  kind  of 
benediction,  passed  to  the  door,  and  after  tap- 

*  "  Pardon,  good  Jesus.   Save  my  child.    Leave  me  not  alone." 


I 

.1 


I 


'\ 


\ 


IV  •.,  J,  I 


m 


wm 


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lit 


I    I 


i'^ 


150 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


ping  very  softly,  opened  it,  entered,  and  closed 
it  behind  hini — not  so  cpiickly,  however,  but 
that  the  woman  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  father 
and  the  boy.  In  her  eyes  there  was  the  divine 
look  of  motherhood. 

"Peace  be  to  this  house!"  said  the  man 
gently,  as  he  stei)ped  forward  from  the  door. 

The  father,  startled,  turned  shrinkingly  on 
him,  as  if  he  had  seen  a  spirit. 

"  M'sieu'  le  cur(^  1"  he  said  in  French,  with 
an  accent  much  poorer  than  that  of  the  priest, 
or  even  of  his  own  son.  He  had  learned  French 
from  his  wife;  he  himself  was  English. 

The  priest's  quick  eye  had  taken  in  the 
lighted  candles  at  the  little  shrine,  even  as  he 
saw  the  painfully  changed  aspect  of  the  man. 

"The  wife  and  child,  Bagot?"  he  asked, 
looking  round.  "Ah,  the  boy  1"  he  added,  and 
going  toward  the  bed,  continued,  presently,  in 
a  low  voice  :  "Dominique  is  ill  ?" 

Bagot  nodded,  and  then  answered:  "A  wild- 
cat and  then  fever.  Father  Corraine." 

The  priest  felt  the  boy's  pulse  softly,  then 
with  a  close  personal  look  he  spoke  hardly  above 
his  breath,  yet  distinctly  too : 

"Your  wife,  Bagot?" 

"She  is  not  here,  m'sieu'."  The  voice  was 
low  and  gloomy. 


^ 


\ii 


i\ 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan        1 5 1 


.» »» 


"Where  is  slie,  Bai^ot?" 

**I  do  not  know,  in'sieii*.' 

"When  did  you  see  her  kist  ?" 

"Four  >veeks  ago,  nrsieu'." 

"That  was  September,  this  is  October — 
winter.  On  the  ranches  they  let  their  cattle 
loose  upon  the  plains  in  winter,  knowing  not 
where  they  go,  yet  looking  for  them  to  return 
in  the  spring.  But  a  woman — a  woman  and  a 
wife — is  different.  .  .  .  r>agot,  you  have  been  a 
rough,  hard  man,  and  you  have  been  a  stranger 
to  your  God,  but  I  thought  you  loved  your  wife 
and  child!" 

The  hunter's  hands  clenched,  and  a  wicked 
light  flashed  up  into  his  eyes;  but  the  calm,  be- 
nignant gaze  of  the  other  cooled  the  tempest  in 
his  veins.  The  priest  sat  down  on  the  couch 
where  the  child  lay,  and  took  the  fevered  hand 
in  his  very  softly. 

"Stay  where  you  arc,  Bagot,  just  there  vi'iere 
you  are,  and  tell  me  what  your  trouble  is,  and 
why  your  wife  is  not  here.  .  .  .  Say  all  honestly 
— by  the  name  of  the  Christ!"  he  added,  lifting 
up  a  large  iron  crucifix   that  hung  on  his  breast 

Bagot  sat  down  on  a  bench  near  the  fireplace 
the  light  playing  on  his  bronzed,  powerful  face, 
his  eyes  shining  beneath  his  heavy  brows  like 
two  coals.     After  a  moment  he  began  : 


1 


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V  { 


%i  >i 


I 


l'\ 


152 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


"  I  don't  know  how  it  started.  I  *d  lost  a  lot 
of  pelts — stolen  they  were,  down  on  the  Child  o' 
Sin  River.  Well,  she  was  hasty  and  nervous, 
like  as  not — she  always  was  brisker  and  more 
sudden  than  I  am.  I — I  laid  my  powder-horn 
and  whisky-flask — up  there  ! " 

He  pointed  to  the  little  shrine  of  the  Virgin, 
where  now  his  candles  were  burning.  The 
priest's  grave  eyes  did  not  change  expression  at 
all,  but  looked  out  wisely,  as  though  he  under- 
stood everything  before  it  was  told. 

Bagot  continued :  **  I  did  n't  notice  it,  but 
she  had  put  some  flowers  there.  She  said  some- 
thing with  an  edge,  her  face  all  snapping  angry, 
threw  the  things  down,  and  called  me  a  heathen 
and  a  wicked  heretic — and  I  do  n't  say  now  but 
she  'd  a  right  to  do  it.  But  I  let  out  then,  for 
them  stolen  pelts  were  rasping  me  on  the  raw. 
I  said  something  pretty  rough,  and  made  as  if  I 
was  goin'  to  break  her  in  two — just  fetched  up 
my  hands,  and  went  like  this  !— "  With  a  sin- 
gular simplicity  he  made  a  wild  gesture  with  his 
hands,  and  an  animal-like  snarl  came  from  his 
throat.  Then  he  looked  at  the  priest  with  the 
honest  intensity  of  a  boy. 

"  Yes,  that  was  what  you  did — what  was  it  you 
said  which  was  *  pretty  rough  '  ?" 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan        153 

There  was  a  slight  hesitation,  then  came  the 
reply  : 

"  I  said  there  was  enough  powder  spilt  on 
the  floor  to  kill  all  the  priests  in  heaven." 

A  fire  suddenly  shot  up  into  Father  Corraine's 
face,  and  his  lips  tightened  for  an  instant,  but 
presently  he  was  as  before,  and  he  said  : 

"  How  that  will  face  you  one  day,  Bagot ! 
Go  on.     What  else  ?  " 

Sweat  began  to  break  out  on  Bagot's  face, 
and  he  spoke  as  though  he  were  carrying  a  heavy 
weight  on  his  shoulders,  low  and  brokenly. 

"Then  I  said,  *  And  if  virgins  has  it  so  fine, 
why  did  n't  you  stay  one  ?  " 

"Blasphemer!"  said  the  priest  in  astern, 
reproachful  voice,  his  face  turning  a  little  pale! 
and  he  brought  the  crucifix  to  his  lips.  '*To 
the  mother  of  your  child— shame!  What 
ntorc  ? " 

"She  threw  up  her  hands  to  her  ears  with  a 
wild  cry,  ran  out  of  the  house,  down  the  hills, 
and  away.  I  went  to  the  door  and  watched  her 
as  long  as  I  could  see  her,  and  waited  for  her 
to  come  back— but  she  never  did.  I  'vc  hunted 
and  hunted,  but  I  can't  find  her."  Then,  with 
a  sudden  thought,  "  Do  you  know  anything  of 
her,  m'sieu'  ?  " 


i 


v**  . 


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'I    r  I 

It: 


154 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


'w 


V  .J 


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I    I 


The  priest  appeared  not  to  hear  the  question. 
Turning  for  a  moment  toward  the  boy  who  now 
was  in  a  deep  sleep,  he  looked  at  hi  a  intently. 
Presently  he  spoke. 

"  Ever  since  I  married  you  and  Lucette  Bar- 
bond  you  have  stood  in  the  way  of  her  duty, 
Bagot.  How  well  I  remember  that  first  day 
when  you  knelt  before  me  !  Was  ever  so  sweet 
and  good  a  girl — with  her  golden  eyes  and  the 
look  of  summer  in  her  face,  and  her  heart  all 
pure  !  Nothing  had  spoiled  her — you  cannot 
spoil  such  women — God  is  in  their  hearts.  But 
you,  what  have  you  cared  ?  One  day  you  would 
fondle  her,  and  the  next  you  were  a  savage — ■ 
and  she,  so  gentle,  so  gentle  all  the  time  I 
Then,  for  her  religion  and  the  faith  of  her  child 
— she  has  fought  for  it,  prayed  for  it,  suffered 
for  it.  You  thought  you  had  no  need,  for  you 
had  so  much  happiness,  which  you  did  not  de- 
serve— that  was  it.  But  she  !  with  all  a  woman 
suffers,  how  can  she  bear  life — and  man — with- 
out God  ?  No,  it  is  not  possible.  And  you 
thought  you  and  your  few  superstitions  were 
enough  for  her. — Ah,  poor  fool  !  She  should 
worship  you !  So  selfish,  so  small,  for  a  man 
who  knows  in  his  heart  how  great  God  is. — You 
did  not  love  her." 


^» 


U»:  t- 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan        155 

"  By  the  Heaven  above,  yes  ! "  said  Bagot, 
half  starting  to  his  feet. 

"Ah,  'by  the  Heaven  above,' no  !  nor  the 
child.  For  true  love  is  unselfish  and  patient, 
and  where  it  is  the  stronger,  it  cares  for  the 
weaker  ;  but  it  was  your  wife  who  was  unselfish, 
patient,  and  cared  for  you.  Every  time  she  said 
an  ave  she  thought  of  you,  and  her  every  thanks 
to  the  good  God  had  you  therein.  They  know 
you  well  in  he''ven,  Bagot — through  your  wife. 
Did  you  ever  pray — ever  since  I  married  you  to 
her?" 

"Yes." 

"  When  ?  " 

"An  hour  or  so  ago." 

Once  again  the  priest's  eyes  glanced  tovv^ards 
the  lighted  candles. 

Presently  he  said  :  "  You  asked  me  if  I  had 
heard  anything  of  your  wife.  Listen,  and  be 
patient  while  you  listen.  .  .  .  Three  weeks  ago 
I  was  camping  on  the  Sundust  Plains,  over 
against  the  Young  Sky  River.  In  the  morning, 
as  I  was  lighting  a  fire  outside  my  tent,  my 
young  Cree  Indian  with  me,  I  saw  coming  over 
the  crest  of  a  landwave,  from  the  very  lips  of 
the  sunrise,  as  it  were,  a  band  of  Indians.  I 
could  not  quite  make  them  out.     I  hoisted  my 


•f 


I 


I ' 


1 


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i 


rf 


^  \ 


156 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


'.J 


if 


W 


'(< 


»    I 


I  •' 


little  flag  on  the  tent,  and  they  hurried  on  to 
rae.  I  did  not  know  Lhe  tribe — they  had  come 
from  near  Hudson's  Bay.  They  spolce  Chinook, 
and  I  could  understand  them.  Well,  as  they 
came  near,  I  saw  that  they  had  a  woman  with 
them." 

Bagot  leaned  forward,  his  body  strained, 
every  muscle  tense.  "  A  woman  !  "  he  said,  as 
if  breathing  gave  him  sorrow — *'my  wife  I " 

"  Your  wife." 

"Quick!  Quick!  Go  on — oh,  go  on, 
m'sieu'  —  good  father." 

"  She  fell  at  my  feet,  begging  me  to  save  her. 
...     I  waved  her  off." 

The  sweat  dropped  from  Bagot's  forehead, 
a  low  growl  broke  from  him,  and  he  made  such 
a  motion  as  a  lion  might  make  at  its  prey. 

"You  wouldn't — wouldn't  save  her  —  you 
coward  I"     He  ground  the  words  out. 

The  priest  raised  his  palm  against  the  other's 
violence.  "  Hush  !  .  .  .  She  drew  away,  saying 
that  God  and  man  had  deserted  her.  .  .  .  We 
had  breakfast,  the  chief  and  I.  Afterwards, 
when  the  chief  had  eaten  much  and  was  in  good 
humor,  I  asked  him  where  he  had  got  the  wo- 
man. He  said  that  he  had  found  her  on  the 
plains — she  had  lost  her  way.  I  told  him  then 
that  I  wanted  to  buy  her.  He  said  to  me*    'What 


«i;   '. 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan        157 

does  a  priest  want  of  a  woman  ? '  I  said  that  I 
wished  to  give  her  back  to  her  husband.  He 
said  that  he  had  found  her,  and  she  was  his,  and 
that  he  would  marry  her  when  they  reached  the 
great  camp  of  the  tribe.  I  was  patient.  It 
would  not  do  to  make  him  angry.  I  wrote 
down  on  a  piece  of  bark  the  things  that  I  would 
give  him  for  her  :  an  order  on  the  Company  at 
Fort  o'  Sin  for  shot,  blankets  and  beads.  He 
said  no." 

The  priest  paused.  Bagot's  face  was  all  swim- 
ming with  sweat,  his  body  was  rigid,  but  the 
veins  of  his  neck  knotted  and  twisted. 

"For  the  love  of  God  go  on!"  he  said 
hoarsely. 

"Yes,  'for  the  love  of  God.*  I  have  no 
money,  I  am  poor,  but  the  Company  will  -always 
honor  my  orders,  for  I  pay  sometimes  by  the 
help  of  Christ.  Bicn,  I  added  some  things  to 
the  list :  a  saddle,  a  rifle,  and  some  flannel.  But 
no,  he  would  not.  Once  more  I  put  many  things 
down.  It  was  a  big  bill — it  would  keep  me 
poor  for  five  years. — To  save  your  wife,  John 
who    drove    her    fro 


igot,   y^ 


your 


blaspheming  and  railing  at  such  as  I. 


offered  the  things,  and  told  him  that  was 
that  I  could  give.  After  a  little  he  shook 
head,  and  said  that  he  must  have  the  woman 


all 
his 
for 


M 


158 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


i'l '' 


h      « 


r  If 


his  wife.  I  did  not  know  what  to  add.  I  said 
—  'She  is  white,  and  the  white  people  will  never 
rest  till  they  have  killed  you  ull,  if  you  do  this 
thing.  The  Company  will  track  you  down.* 
Then  he  said,  *  The  whites  must  catch  me  and 
fight  me  before  they  kill  me.'  .  .  .  What  was 
there  to  do  ?" 

Bagot  came  near  to  the  priest,  bending  over 
him  savagely  : 

"You  let  her  stay  with  them  —  you,  with 
hands  like  a  man  !" 

"  Hush,"  was  the  calm,  reproving  answer. 
"  I  was  one  man,  they  were  twenty." 

"  Where  was  your  God   to  help  you,  then  ?  " 

"  Her  God  and  mine  was  with  me." 

Bagot's  eyes  blazed.  "  Why  did  n't  you  offer 
rum — rum  ?  They  'd  have  done  it  for  that  — 
one  —  five  —  ten  kegs  of  rum  !" 

He  swayed  to  and  fro  in  his  excitement,  yet 
their  voices  hardly  rose  above  a  hoarse 
whisper    all   the    time. 

•'You  forget,"  answered  the  priest,  "that  it 
is  against  the  law,  and  that  as  a  priest  of  my 
order  I  am  vowed  to  give  no  rum  to  an  In- 
dian." 

"  A  vow  !  A  vow  !  Son  of  God  !  what  is  a 
vow  beside  a  woman  —  my  wite  ?" 

His  misery  and  his  rage  were  pitiful  to  see. 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan        1 59 

"  Perjure  my  soul  !  Offer  rum  !  Break  my 
vow  in  the  face  of  the  enemies  of  God's  Church  I 
What  have  you  done  for  me  that  I  should  do 
this  for  you,  John  Bagot  ?" 

"  Coward  ! "  was  the  man's  despairing  cry, 
with  a  sudden  threatening  movement.  "Christ 
himself  would  have  broke  a  vow  to  save  her." 

The  grave,  kind  eyes  of  the  priest  met  the 
other's  fierce  gaze,  and  quieted  the  wild  storm 
that  was  about  to  break. 

"  Who  am  I  that  I  chould  teach  my  Master  ?" 
he  said,  solemnly.  "  What  would  you  give 
Christ,  Bagot,  if  He  //iz^  saved  her  to  you  ?" 

The  man  shook  with  grief,  and  tears  rushed 
from  his  eyes,  so  suddenly  and  fully  had  a  new 
emotion  passed  through  him. 

"Give — give!"  he  cried  ;  "I  would  give 
twenty  years  of  my  life  !" 

The  figure  of  the  priest  stretched  up  with  a 
gentle  grandeur.  Holding  out  the  iron  crucifix, 
he  said:  "On  your  knees  and  swear  it!  John 
Bagot." 

There  was  something  inspiring,  commanding, 
in  the  voice  and  manner,  and  Bagot,  with  a  new 
hope  rushing  through  his  veins,  knelt  and  re- 
peated his  words. 

The  priest  turned  to  the  door,  and  called, 
"  Madame  Lucette  1 " 


't. 


i6o 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


I'  I 


The  boy,  hco'-ing,  waked,  and  sat  up  in  Led 
suddenly. 

"  Mother  !  mother  ! "  he  cried,  as  the  door 
flew  open. 

The  mother  came  to  her  husband's  arms, 
laughing  and  weeping,  and  an  instant  atterward.^ 
w'  pc  uring  out  he^  love  and  anxiet)  over  her 
ch  !d. 

i^:;,ther  Curraine  now  faced  the  man,  and  with 
a  soft  UA.iltation  of  voice  and  manner  said: 

"  John  Bagot,  in  the  name  of  Christ,  I  de- 
ro.and  twenty  years  of  your  life—  of  love  and 
obedience  of  God.  I  broke  my  vow;  I  per- 
jured my  soul;  I  bought  your  wife  with  ten  kegs 
of  rum  !" 

The  tall  hunter  dropped  again  to  his  knees, 
and  caught  the  priest's  hand  to  kiss  it. 

"No,  -^o — this!"  the  priest  said,  and  laid 
his  iron  crucifix  against  the  other's  lips. 

Dominique's  voice  came  clearly  through  the 
room  : 

"Mother,  I  saw  the  white  swan  fly  away 
througii  the  door  when  you  came  in.*' 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "there  was  no 
white  swan."  But  she  clasped  the  boy  to  her 
breast  protectingly,  and  whispered  an  ave. 

"Peace  be  to  this  house,"  said  the  voice  of 
the  priest. 


itf 


The  Going  of  the  White  Swan        16' 

And  there  was  peace:  for  the  child  lived, 
iJ.nd  thr  man  has  loved,  and  has  kept  his  vow, 
even  unto  this  day. 

For  Jie  visions  of  the  boy,  who  can  know  the 
divers  ways  in  which  God  speaks  to  the  children 
of  men ! 


of 


i' 


I 


"-"Hf*" 


^SEz: 


4'  - 


ti^; 


At  Bamber's  Boom 
I 

His  trouble  came  upon  him  when  he  was  old. 
To  the  hour  of  its  coming  he  had  been  of 
shrewd  and  humorous  disposition.  He  had 
married  late  in  life,  and  his  wife  had  died,  leav- 
ing him  one  child — a  girl.  She  grew  to  woman- 
hood, bringing  him  daily  joy.  She  was  beloved 
in  the  settlement ;  and  there  was  no  one  at 
Bamber's  Boom,  in  the  valley  of  the  Madawaska, 
but  was  startled  and  sorry  when  it  turned  out 
that  Dugard,  the  river-boss,  was  married.  He 
floated  away  down  the  river,  with  his  rafts  and 
drives  of  logs,  leaving  the  girl  sick  and  shamed. 
They  knew  she  was  sick  at  heart,  because  she 
grew  pale  and  silent ;  they  did  not  know  for 
some  months  how  shamed  she  was.  Then  it 
was  that  Mrs.  Lauder,  the  sister  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  missionary.  Father  Halen,  being  a 
woman  of  notable  character  and  kindness,  visited 
her  and  begged  her  to  tell  all. 

Though  the  girl — Nora — was  a  Protestant, 
Mrs.  Lauder  did  so :  but  it  brought  sore  grief  to 

162 


« 


]}■>: 


h.    '! 


.V 


■!i  t 


At  Bambcr's  Boom 


163 


her.  At  first  she  could  hardly  bear  to  look  at 
the  girl's  face,  it  was  so  hopeless,  so  numb  to 
the  world:  it  had  the  indifference  of  despair. 
Rumor  now  became  hateful  fact.  When  the 
old  man  was  told,  he  gave  one  loud  cry,  then 
sat  down,  his  hands  pressed  hard  between  his 
knees,  his  body  trembling,  his  eyes  staring  be- 
fore him. 

It  was  Father  Halen  who  told  him.  He  did 
it  as  man  to  .nun,  and  not  as  a  ))riest,  having 
traveled  fifty  miles  for  the  purpose.  "George 
Magor,"  said  he,  "it's  bad,  I  know,  but  bear  it — 
with  the  help  of  God.    And  be  kind  to  the  girl." 

The  old  man  answered  nothing.  "My 
friend,"  the  priest  continued,  "I  hope  youMl 
forgive  me  for  telling  you.  I  thought  'twould 
be  better  from  me,  than  to  have  it  thrown  at  you 
in  the  settlement.  We've  been  friends  one  way 
and  another,  and  my  heart  aches  for  you,  and 
my  prayers  go  with  you." 

The  old  man  rai:r:d  his  sunken  eyes,  all  their 
keen  humor  gone,  and  spoke  as  though  each 
word  were  dug  from  his  heart.  "Say  no  more. 
Father  Halen."  Then  he  reached  out,  caught 
the  priest's  hand  in  his  gnarled  fingers,  and 
wrung  it. 

The  father  never  spoke  a  harsh  word  to  the 
girl.     Otherwise  he  seemed  to  harden  into  stone. 


I 


164 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


,i^»r 


.; 


When  the  Protestant  missionary  came  he  would 
not  see  him.  The  child  was  born  before  the 
river-drivers  came  aloni:^  again  the  next  year  with 
their  rafts  and  logs.  There  was  a  feeling  abroad 
that  it  would  be  ill  for  Dugard  if  he  chanced  to 
camp  at  Bamber's  Boom.  The  look  of  the  old 
man's  face  was  ominous,  and  he  was  known  to 
have  an  iron  will. 

Dugard  was  a  handsome  man,  half  French, 
half  Scotch,  swarthy  and  admirably  made.  He 
was  proud  of  his  strength,  and  showily  fearless 
in  danger.  For  there  were  dangerous  hours  to 
the  river  life ;  when,  for  instance,  a  mass  of  logs 
became  jammed  at  a  rapids,  and  must  be 
loosened ;  or  a  crib  struck  into  the  wrong  chan- 
nel, or,  failing  to  enter  a  slide  straight,  came  at 
a  nasty  angle  to  it,  its  timbers  wrenched  and 
tore  apart,  and  its  crew,  with  their  great  oars, 
were  plumped  into  the  busy  current.  He  had 
been  known  to  stand  singly  in  some  perilous 
spot  when  one  log,  the  key  to  the  jam,  must  be 
shifted  to  set  free  the  great  tumbled  pile.  He 
did  everything  with  a  dash.  The  handspike  was 
waved  and  thrust  into  the  best  leverage,  the  long 
robust  cry,  "0-hee-hee-hoi !"  rolled  over  the 
waters,  there  was  a  devil's  jumble  of  logs,  and 
he  played  a  desperate  game  with  them,  tossing 
here,  leaping  there,   balancing  elsewhere,   till, 


At  Bambcr's  Boom 


105 


reaching  the  smooth  rush  of  logs  in  the  current, 
he  ran  across  thciii  to  the  shore  as  they  spun 
beneath  his  feet. 

His  gang  of  river-drivers,  with  their  big  drives 
of  logs,  came  sweeping  down  one  beautiful  day 
of  early  summer,  red-shirted,  shouting,  good- 
tempered.  It  was  about  this  time  that  Tlcrrc 
came  to  know  Magor. 

It  was  the  old  man's  duty  to  keep  the  booms 
of  several  great  lumbering  companies,  and  to 
watch  the  logs  when  the  river-drivers  were  en- 
gaged elsewhere.  Occasionally  he  took  a  place 
with  the  men,  helping  to  make  cribs  and  rafts. 
Dugard  worked  for  one  lumber  company,  Magor 
for  others.  Many  in  the  settlement  showed 
Dugard  how  much  he  was  despised.  Some 
warned  him  that  Magor  had  said  he  would  break 
him  into  pieces  ;  it  seemed  possible  that  Dugard 
might  have  a  bad  hour  with  the  people  of  Bam- 
ber's  Boom.  Dugard,  though  he  swelled  and 
strutted,  showed  by  a  furtive  eye  and  a  sin- 
ister watchfulness  that  he  felt  himself  in  an 
atmosphere  of  danger.  But  he  spoke  of  his 
wickedness  lightly  as,  *'  A  slip — a  little  accident, 
mon  amiy 

Pierre  said  to  him  one  day  :  "  Bien,  Dugard, 
you  are  a  bold  man  to  come  here  again.  Or  is 
it  that  you  think  old  men  are  cowards  ?  " 


i/i 


1 66 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


¥ 


t 


Dugard,  blustering,  laid  his  hand  suddenly 
upon  his  case-knife. 

Pierre  laughed  softly,  contemptuously,  came 
over,  and  throwing  out  his  perfectly  formed  but 
not  robust  chest  in  the  fashion  of  Dugard,  added: 
"  Ho,  ho,  m'sieu'  the  butcher,  take  your  time 
at  that.  There  is  too  much  blood  in  your  car- 
cass. You  have  quarrels  plenty  on  your  hands 
without  this.  Come,  don't  be  a  fool  and  a 
scoundrel  too  !  " 

Dugard  grinned  uneasily,  and  tried  to  turn 
the  thing  off  as  a  joke,  and  Pierre,  who  laughed 
still  a  little  more,  said:  "It  would  be  amusing 
to  see  old  Magor  and  Dugard  fight.  It  would 
be — so  equal."  There  was  a  keen  edge  to 
Pierre's  tones,  but  Dugard  dared  not  resent  it. 

One  day  Magor  and  Dugard  must  meet. 
The  square-timber  of  the  two  companies  had  got 
tangled  at  a  certain  point,  and  gangs  from  both 
must  set  the^.i  loose.  They  were  camped  some 
distance  from  each  other.  There  was  rivalry 
between  them,  and  it  was  hinted  that  if  any 
trouble  came  from  the  meeting  of  Magor  and 
Dugard  the  gangs  would  pay  off  old  scores 
with  each  other.  Pierre  wished  to  prevent  this. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  two  men  'should 
stand  alone  in  the  affair.  He  said  as  much 
here  and  there  to  members  of  both  camps,  for 


'\ 


!i 


At  Bamber's  Boom 


i67 


he  was  free  of  both :  a  tribute  to  his  genius  at 
poker. 

The  girl,  Nora,  was  apprehensive — for  her 
father;  she  hated  the  other  man  now.  Pierre 
was  courteous  to  her,  scrupulous  in  word  and 
look,  and  fond  of  her  child.  He  had  always 
shown  a  gentleness  to  children,  which  seemed 
little  compatible  with  his  character  ;  but  for  this 
young  outlaw  in  the  world  he  had  something 
more.  He  even  labored  carefully  to  turn  the 
girl's  father  in  its  favor  ;  but  as  yet  to  little  pur- 
pose. He  was  thoughtful  of  the  girl  too.  He 
only  went  to  the  house  when  he  knew  her  father 
was  present,  or  when  she  was  away.  Once  while 
he  wac  there  Father  Halen  and  his  sister,  Mrs. 
Lauder,  came.  They  found  Pierre  with  the  child, 
rocking  the  cradle,  and  humming  as  he  did  so 
an  old  song  of  the  courcurs  de  bois: 

"Out  of  the  hills  comes  a  little  white  deer  — 
Poor  little  vaurien,  O,  ci,  ci! 
Come  to  my  home,  to  my  home  down  here, 
Sister  and  brother  and  child  o'  me — 
Poor  little,  poor  little  vauricn! 

Pierre  was  alone,  save  for  the  old  woman  who 
had  cared  for  the  home  since  Nora's  trouble 
came.  The  priest  was  anxious  lest  any  harm 
should  come  from  Dugard's  presence  at  Bam- 
ber's Boom.     He  knew  Pierre's  doubtful  repu- 


1 68 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


I    ■ 


h     V 


tation,  but  still  he  knew  he  could  speak  freely 
and  would  be  answered  honestly. 

"What  will  happen  ?"  he  abruptly  asked. 

"  What  neither  you  nor  I  should  try  to  pre- 
vent, m'sieu',"  was  Pierre's  reply. 

"Magor  will  do  the  man  injury  ?" 

"  Whut  would  you  have  ?  Put  the  matter  on 
your  own  hearthstone,  eh  ?  .  .  .  Pardon,  if  I  say 
these  things  bluntly."  Pierre  still  lightly  rocked 
the  cradle  with  one  foot. 

"But  vengeance  is  in  God's  hands." 

"M'sieu',"  said  the  half-breed,  "vengeance 
also  is  man's,  else  why  did  we  ten  men  from 
Fort  Cypress  track  down  the  Indians  who  mur- 
dered your  brother,  the  good  priest,  and  kill 
them  one  by  one  ?  " 

Father  Halen  caught  his  sister  as  she  swayed, 
and  helped  her  to  a  chair,  then  turned  a  sad  face 
on  Pierre.  "  Were  you — were  you  one  of  that 
ten  ?  "  he  asked,  overcome  ;  and  he  held  out  his 
hand. 

The  two  rivers-driving  camps  joined  at  Mud 
Cat  Point,  where  was  the  crush  of  great  timber. 
The  two  men  did  not  at  first  come  face  t6  face, 
but  it  was  noticed  by  Pierre,  who  smoked  on  the 
bank  while  the  others  worked,  that  the  old  man 
watched  his  enemy  closely.  The  work  of  undo- 
ing the  great   twist  of  logs  was  exciting,  and 


fi  I 


WK 
u 


At  Bamber's  Boom 


169 


:ud 
iber. 
:ace, 

the 

lan 
ido- 

ind 


they  fell  on  each  other  with  a  great  sound  as  they 
were  pried  off,  and  went  sliding,  grinding  into 
the  water.  A.t  one  spot  they  were  piled  together, 
massive  and  high.  These  were  left  to  the  last. 
It  was  here  that  the  two  met.  Old  Magor's 
face  was  quiet,  if  a  little  haggard,  and  his  eyes 
looked  out  from  under  his  shaggy  brows  pierc- 
ingly. Dugard's  manner  was  swaggering,  and 
he  swore  horribly  at  his  gang.  Presently  he 
stood  at  a  point  alone,  working  at  an  obstinate 
log.  He  was  at  the  foot  of  an  incline  of  timber, 
and  he  was  not  aware  that  Magor  had  suddenly 
appeared  at  the  top  of  that  incline.  He  heard 
his  name  called  out  sharply.  Swinging  round, 
he  saw  Magor  thrusting  a  handspike  under  a 
huge  timber  hanging  at  the  top  of  the  incline. 
He  was  standing  in  a  hollow,  a  kind  of  trench. 
He  was  shaken  with  fear,  for  he  saw  the  old 
man's  design.  He  gave  a  cry  and  made  as  if  to 
jump  out  of  the  way,  but  with  a  laugh  Magor 
threw  his  whole  weight  on  the  handspike,  the 
great  timber  slid  swiftly  down  and  crushed 
Dugard  from  his  thighs  to  his  feet,  breaking  his 
legs  terribly.  The  old  man  called  down  at  him: 
"A  slip— a  little  n.cc[dcnt,  mon  a ?m' / "  Then, 
shouldering  his  handspike,  he  made  his  v/ay 
through  the  silent  gangs  to  the  shore,  and  so  on 
homewards. 


ill 


t 


n 


I 


li' 


170 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


Vii} 


Magor  had  done  what  he  wished.  Dugard 
would  be  a  cripple  for  life  ;  his  beauty  was  all 
spoiled  and  broken  :  there  was  much  to  do  to 
save  his  life. 

II 

Nora  also  about  this  time  look  to  her  bed 
with  fever.  Again  and  again  Pierre  rode  thirty 
miles  and  back  to  get  ice  for  her  head.  All 
were  kind  to  her  now.  The  vengeance  up- 
on Dugard  seemed  to  have  wiped  out  much  of 
her  shame  in  the  eyes  of  Bamber's  Boom.  Such 
is  the  way  of  the  world.  He  that  has  the  last 
blow  is  in  the  eye  of  advantage.  When  Nora 
began  to  recover  the  child  fell  ill  also.  In  the 
sickness  of  the  child  the  old  man  had  a  great 
temptation — far  greater  than  that  concern- 
ing Dugard.  As  the  mother  grew  better  the 
child  became  much  worse.  One  night  the  doc- 
tor came,  driving  ever  from  another  settlement, 
and  said  that  if  the  child  got  sleep  till  morning 
it  would  probably  live,  for  the  crisis  had  come. 
He  left  an  opiate  to  procure  the  sleep,  the  same 
that  had  been  given  to  the  mother.  If  it  did 
not  sleep  it  would  die.  Pierre  was  present  at 
this  time. 

All  through  the  child's  illness  the  old  man's 
mind  had  been  tossed  to  and  fro.     If  the  child 


}J 


At  Bamber's  Boom 


171 


ard 

all 

)  to 


bed 

tiirty 
All 

:  up- 

:h  o£ 

Such 

e  last 

Nora 

n  the 
great 

icern- 

n-  the 
doc- 
ment, 
)rning 
come, 
same 
it  did 
ent  at 

man's 
child 


died,  the  living  stigma  would  be  gone;  there 
would  be  no  reminder  of  his  daughter's  shame 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  They  could  gu  away 
from  Bamber's  Boom,  and  begin  life  again  some- 
where. But,  then,  there  was  the  child  itself 
which  had  crept  into  his  heart — he  knew  not 
how — and  would  not  be  driven  out.  He  had 
never,  till  it  was  taken  ill,  even  touched  it,  nor 
spoken  to  it.  To  destroy  its  life!  Well,  would 
it  not  be  better  for  the  child  to  go  out  of  all 
possible  shame,  into  peace,  the  peace  of  the  grave  ? 

This  night  he  sat  down  beside  the  cradle, 
holding  the  bottle  of  medicine  and  a  spoon  in 
his  hand.  The  hot,  painful  face  of  the  child 
fascinated  him.  He  looked  from  it  to  the  bot- 
tle, and  back,  and  then  again  to  the  bottle.  He 
started,  and  the  sweat  stood  out  on  his  fore- 
head. For  though  the  doctor  had  told  him 
in  words  the  proper  dose,  he  had  by  mistake 
written  on  the  label  the  same  dose  as  for  the 
mother!  Here  was  the  responsibility  shifted  in 
any  case.  More  than  once  'he  old  mr.n  un- 
corked the  bottle,  and  once  ' 
opiate  in  the  spoon  stc^.di 
opened  its  suffering  eyes 
wasted  hand  wandered  ovi  1 
he  could  not  do  it  just  th    . 

But  again  the  passion  fur  its  destruction  came 


dropped  out  the 

but    the    child 

t    him,    its    little 

the  coverlet,  and 


i        f 


172 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


li 


»  1   ^^ 


'<  '/ 


1   i . 


on  him,  because  he  heard  his  daughter  moaning 
in  the  other  room.  He  said  to  himself  that  she 
would  be  happier  when  it  was  gone.  But  as  he 
stooped  over  the  cradle,  no  longer  hesitating, 
the  door  softly  opened,  and  Pierre  entered. 
The  old  man  shuddered,  and  drew  back  from 
the  cradle.  Pierre  saw  the  look  of  guilt  in  the 
old  man's  face,  and  his  instinct  told  him  what 
was  happening.  He  took  the  bottle  from  the 
trembling  hand,  and  looked  at  the  label. 

"What  is  the  right  dose?"  he  asked,  seeing 
that  a  mistake  had  been  made  by  the  doctor. 

In  a  hoarse  whisper  Magor  told  him.  "  It 
may  be  too  late,"  Pierre  added.  He  knelt 
down,  with  light  fingers  opened  the  child's 
mouth,  and  poured  the  medicine  in  slowly. 
The  old  man  stood  for  a  time  rigid,  looking  at 
them  both.  Then  he  came  round  to  the  other 
side  of  the  cradle,  and  seated  himself  beside  it, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  child's  face.  For  a  long 
time  they  sat  there.  At  last  the  old  man  said: 
"Will  he  die,  Pierre?" 

"I  am  afraid,"  answered  Pierre  painfully. 
"  But  we  shall  L-ee."  Then  early  teaching  came 
to  him — never  to  be  entirely  obliterated — and 
he  added:  "Has  the  child  been  baptized?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  "  Will  you 
do  it?"  asked  Pierre  hesitatingly. 


' 


.■.iii 


At  Bamber's  Boom 


173 


ing 
she 
J  he 
ing, 
ired. 
:rom 
I  the 
what 
I  the 

2eing 

r. 
"It 

knelt 

hild's 

lowly. 

ng  at 
other 

de  it, 
long 
said: 


"  I  can  't — I  can  't,"  was  the  reply. 

Pierre  smiled  a  little  ironically,  as  if  to  him- 
self, got  some  water  in  a  cup,  came  over,  and 
said: 

"  Remember,  I  'm  a  Papist !  " 

A  motion  of  the  hand  answered  him. 

He  dipped  his  fingers  in  the  water,  and 
dropped  it  ever  so  lightly  on  the  child's  fore- 
head. 

"George  Mugor" — it  was  the  old  man's 
name — "  I  baptize  thee  in  the  name  of  the 
Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 
Amen."  Then  he  drew  the  sign  of  the  cross 
on  the  infant's  forehead. 

Sitting  down,  he  watched  beside  the  child. 
After  a  little  he  hea  1  .1  long  choking  sigh. 
Looking  up  he  saw  tears  slowly  dropping  from 
Magor's  eyes. 

And  to  this  day  the  child  and  the  mother  of 
the  child  are  dear  to  the  old  man's  heart. 


I 


'i 


ifully. 

came 

I — and 


ii> 


111  you 


^^ 


V, 


f 


The  Bridge  House 

It  stood  on  a  wide  wall  between  two  small 
bridges.  These  were  approaches  to  the  big  cov- 
ered bridge  spanning  the  main  channel  of  the 
Madawaska  River  and  when  swelled  by  the 
spring  thaws  and  rains,  the  two  flanking  chan- 
nels divided  at  the  foundations  of  the  house, 
and  rustled  away  through  the  narrow  paths  of 
the  small  bridges  to  the  rapids.  You  could 
stand  at  any  window  in  the  House  and  watch 
the  ugly,  rushing  current,  gorged  with  logs, 
come  battering  at  the  wall,  jostle  between  the 
piers,  and  race  on  to  the  rocks  and  the  dam  and 
the  slide  beyond.  You  stepped  from  the  front 
door  upon  the  wall,  which  was  a  road  between 
the  bridges,  and  from  the  back  door  into  the 
river  itself. 

The  House  had  once  been  a  tavern.  It  looked 
a  wayfarer,  like  its  patrons  the  river-drivers,  with 
whom  it  was  most  popular.  You  felt  that  it 
had  no  part  in  the  career  of  the  village  on  either 
side,  but  was  like  a  rock  in  a  channel,  at  which 
a  swimmer  caught  or  a  vagrant  fish  loitered. 

174 


U' 


The  Bridge  House 


175 


small 
;  cov- 
)f  the 
y  the 
chan- 
:iouse, 
.ths  of 
could 
watch 
I  logs, 
:en  the 
m  and 
front 
tween 
to  the 

hooked 

s,  with 

Ithat  it 

either 

which 

d. 


Pierre  knew  the  place,  when,  of  a  night  in 
the  springtime  or  early  summer,  throngs  of 
river-drivers  and  their  bosses  sauntered  at  its 
doors,  or  hung  over  the  railing  of  the  wall,  as 
they  talked  and  smoked. 

The  glory  of  the  Bridge  House  suddenly  de- 
clined. That  was  because  Finley,  the  owner,  a 
rich  man,  came  to  hate  the  place  —  his  brother's 
blood  stained  the  bar-room  floor.  He  would 
have  destroyed  the  house  but  that  John  Rupert, 
the  beggared  gentleman,  came  to  him,  and 
wished  to  rent  it  for  a  dwelling. 

Mr.  Rupert  was  old,  and  had  been  miserably 
poor  for  many  years,  but  he  had  a  breeding  and 
a  manner  superior  to  anyone  at  Bamber's  Boom. 
He  was  too  old  for  a  labourer,  he  had  no  art  or 
craftsmanship  ;  his  little  money  was  gone  in 
foolish  speculations,  and  he  was  dependent  on 
his  granddaughter's  slight  earnings  from  music- 
teaching  and  needlework.  But  he  rented  an 
acre  of  ground  from  Finley,  and  grew  vegeta- 
bles ;  he  gathered  driftwood  from  the  river  for 
his  winter  fire,  and  made  up  the  accounts  of  the 
storekeeper  occasionally ;  yet  it  was  merely 
keepixig  off  starvation.  He  was  not  popular. 
He  had  no  tongue  for  the  meaningless  village 
talk.  People  held  him  in  a  kind  of  awe,  and 
yet  they  felt  a  mean  satisfaction  when  t  ley  saw 


'    V, 

ill 


yv^ 


176 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


*j 


n 


n 


^ 


him  shouldering  driftwood,  and  piling  it  on  the 
shore  to  be  dragged  away  —  the  last  resort  of 
the  poor,  for  which  they  blush. 

When  Mr.  Rupert  asked  for  the  House  Fin- 
ley  knew  the  chances  were  he  would  not  get  the 
rental ;  yet,  because  he  was  sorry  for  the  old 
man,  he  gave  it  to  him  at  a  low  rate.  He  closed 
up  the  bar-room,  however,  and  it  was  never 
opened  afterwards. 

So  it  was  that  Mr.  Rupert  and  Judith,  his 
granddaughter,  came  to  live  there.  Judith  was 
a  blithe,  lissome  creature,  who  had  never  known 
comfort  or  riches;  they  were  taken  from  her 
grandfather  before  she  was  born,  and  her  father 
and  mother  both  died  when  she  was  yet  a  little 
child.  Eat  she  had  been  taught  by  her  grand- 
mother, when  she  lived,  and  by  her  grandfather, 
and  she  had  felt  the  graces  of  refined  life. 
Withal,  she  had  a  singular  sympathy  for  the 
rude,  strong  life  of  the  river.  She  was  glad 
when  they  came  to  live  at  the  Bridge  House ; 
and  shamed  too ;  glad  because  they  could  live 
apart  from  the  other  villagers  ;  shamed  because 
it  exposed  her  to  the  curiosity  of  those  who 
visited  the  House,  thinking  it  was  yet  a  tavern. 
But  that  was  only  for  a  time. 

One  night  Jules  Brydon,  the  young  river- 
boss,  camped  with  his  men  at  Bamber's  Boom. 


the 
:  of 

Fin- 

the 

old 
osed 
lever 

I,  his 
1  was 
nown 
n  her 
father 
L  little 
grand- 
father, 
i  life. 
3r  the 
glad 
[ouse  ; 
d  live 
ecause 
e  who 
avern. 

river- 
IBoom. 


The  Bridge  House 


177 


He  was  of  parents  Scotch  and  French,  and  tlie 
anKiii^anuition  of  races  in  him  was  a  striking 
product.  He  was  cool  and  indomitable,  yet 
hearty  and  joyous.  It  was  exciting  to  watch 
him  at  the  head  of  his  men,  breaking  up  a  jam 
of  logs,  and  it  was  a  delight  to  hear  him  of  an 
evening  as  he  sang  : 

"Have  you  heard  the  cry  of  the  Lon^  Lachiiie, 
When  happy  is  the  sun  in  the  morning  ? 
The  rapids  long  and  the  hanks  of  green, 
As  we  ride  away  in  the  morning, 

On  the  froth  of  the  Long  Lachinc?" 

One  day,  soon  after  they  came,  the  dams  and 
booms  were  opened  above,  and  forests  of  logs 
came  riding  down  to  Bamber's  Boom.  The  cur- 
rent was  strong,  and  the  logs  came  on  swiftly. 
As  Brydon's  gang  worked  they  saw  a  man  out 
upon  a  small  raft  of  driftwood,  which  had  been 
suddenly  caught  in  the  drive  of  logs,  and  was 
carried  out  towards  the  middle  channel.  The 
river-drivers  laughed,  for  they  failed  to  see  that 
the  man  was  old,  and  that  he  could  not  run 
across  the  rolling  logs  to  the  shore.  The  old 
man,  evidently  hopeless,  laid  down  his  pike- 
pole,  folded  his  hands  and  drifted  with  the 
logs.  The  river-drivers  stopped  laughing.  They 
began  to  understand. 

Brydon  saw  a  woman  standing  at  a  window 


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178 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


of  the  House  waving  her  arms,  and  there  floated 
up  the  river  the  words,  "  Father !  father ! "  He 
caught  up  a  pike-pole  and  ran  over  that  spin- 
ning floor  of  logs  to  the  raft.  The  old  man's 
face  was  white,  but  there  was  no  fear  in  his 
eyes. 

"  I  cannot  run  the  logs,"  he  said  at  once  ;  "I 
never  did ;  I  am  too  old,  and  I  slip.  It's  no 
use.  It  is  my  granddaughter  at  that  window. 
Tell  her  that  I'll  think  of  her  to  the  last. 
Good-bye ! " 

Br)  don  was  eyeing  the  logs.  The  old  man's 
voice  was  husky;  he  could  not  cry  out,  but  he 
waved  his  hand  to  the  girl. 

"Oh,  save  him!"  came  from  her  faintly. 

Brydon's  eyes  were  now  on  the  covered 
bridge.  Their  raft  was  in  the  channel,  coming 
straight  between  two  piers.  He  measured  his 
chances.  He  knew  if  he  slipped,  doing  what  he 
intended,  that  both  might  be  drowned,  and  cer- 
tainly Mr.  Rupert;  for  the  logs  were  close,  and 
to  drop  among  them  was  a  bad  business.  If 
they  once  closed  over  there  was  an  end  of  every- 
thing. 

"  Keep  quite  still,"  he  said,  "  and  when  I 
throw  you,  catch." 

He  took  the  slight  figure  in  his  arms,  sprang 
out  upon  the  slippery  logs,  and  ran.     A  cheer 


\K 


The  Bridge  House 


179 


ted 
He 
3in- 
an's 
his 

;"I 

s  no 

dovv. 

last. 

Qan's 
It  he 


vered 

iiiing 
d  his 
lat  he 
cer- 
and 
s.  If 
very- 

lien  I 

(prang 
cheer 


went  up  from  the  men  on  the  shore,  and  the 
people  who  were  gathering  on  the  bridges,  too 
late  to  be  of  service.  Besides,  the  bridge  was 
closed,  and  there  was  only  a  small  opening  at 
the  piers.  For  one  of  these  piers  Brydon  was 
making.  He  ran  hard.  Once  he  slipped  and 
nearly  fell,  but  recovered.  Then  a  floating  tree 
suddenly  lunged  up  and  struck  him,  so  that  he 
dropped  upon  a  knee;  but  again  he  was  up,  and 
strained  for  the  pier.  He  was  within  a  few  feet 
of  it  as  they  came  to  the  bridge.  The  people 
gave  a  cry  of  fear,  for  they  saw  that  there  was  no 
chance  of  both  making  it;  because,  too,  at  the 
critical  moment  a  space  of  clear  water  showed 
near  the  pier.  But  Brydon  raised  John  Rupert 
up,  balanced  himself,  and  tossed  him  at  the 
pier,  where  two  river-drivers  stood  stretching 
out  their  arms.  An  instant  afterwards  the  old 
man  was  with  his  granddaughter.  But  Brydon 
slipped  and  fell;  the  roots  of  a  tree  bore  him 
down,  and  he  was  gone  beneath  the  logs ! 

There  was  a  cry  of  horror  from  the  watchers, 
then  all  was  still.  But  below  the  bridge  they 
saw  an  arm  thrust  up  between  the  logs,  and  then 
another  arm  crowding  them  apart.  Now  a  head 
and  shoulders  appeared.  Luckily  the  piece  of 
timber  which  Brydon  grasped  was  square,  and 
did  not  roll.     In  a  moment  he  was  standing  on 


( 


i 


1- 


i8o 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


it.  There  was  a  wild  shout  of  encouragement. 
He  turned  his  battered,  blood-stained  face  to 
the  bridge  for  an  instant,  and,  with  a  wave  of 
the  hand  and  a  sharp  look  towards  the  rapids 
below,  once  more  sprang  out.  It  was  a  brave 
sight,  for  the  logs  were  in  a  narrower  channel 
and  more  riotous.  He  rubbed  the  blood  out  of 
his  eyes  that  he  might  see  his  way.  The  rolling 
forest  gave  him  no  quarter,  but  he  came  on, 
rocking  with  weakness,  to  within  a  few  rods  of 
shore.  Then  a  half-dozen  of  his  men  ran  out 
on  the  logs — they  were  packed  closely  here — 
caught  him  up  and  brought  him  to  dry  ground. 
They  took  him  to  the  Bridge  House.  He 
was  hurt  —  more  than  he  or  they  thought.  The 
old  man  and  the  girl  met  them  at  the  door. 
Judith  gave  a  little  cry  when  she  saw  the  blood 
and  Brydon's  bruised  face.  He  lifted  his  head 
as  though  her  eyes  had  drawn  his,  and,  their 
looks  meeting,  he  took  his  hat  off.  Her  face 
flushed;  she  dropped  her  eyes.  Her  grandfather 
seized  Brydon's  big  hand  and  said  some  trem- 
bling words  of  thanks.  The  girl  stepped  inside, 
made  a  bed  for  him  upon  the  sofa,  and  got  him 
something  to  drink.  She  was  very  cool;  she  im- 
mediately asked  Pierre  to  go  for  the  young  doc- 
tor who  had  lately  come  to  the  place,  and  made 
ready  warm  water  with  which  she  wiped  Brydon's 


The  Bridge  House 


i8l 


blood-stained  face  and  hands,  and  then  gave 
him  some  brandy. 

His  comrades  standing  round  watched  her 
admiringly,  she  was  so  deft  and  delicate.  Bry- 
don,  as  if  to  be  nursed  and  cared  for  was  not 
manly,  felt  ashamed,  and  came  up  quickly  to  a 
sitting  posture,  saying,  **  Pshaw  !  I'm  all  right !" 
But  he  turned  sick  immediately,  and  Judith's 
arms  caught  his  head  and  shoulders  as  he  fell 
back.  His  face  turned,  and  was  pillowed  on 
her  bosom.  At  this  she  blushed,  but  a  look  of 
singular  dignity  came  into  her  face.  Those 
standing  by  were  struck  with  a  kind  of  awe; 
they  were  used  mostly  to  the  daughters  of 
habitants  and  fifty-acre  farmers.  Her  sensitive 
face  spoke  a  wonderful  language  ;  a  divine  grat- 
itude and  thankfulness ;  and  her  eyes  had  a  clear 
moisture  which  did  not  dim  them.  The  situa- 
tion was  trying  to  the  river-drivers — it  was  too 
refined ;  and  they  breathed  more  freely  when 
they  got  outside  and  left  the  girl,  her  grand- 
father, Pierre,  and  the  young  doctor  alone  with 
the  injured  man. 

That  was  how  the  thing  began.  Pierre  saw 
the  conclusion  of  events  from  the  start.  The 
young  doctor  did  not.  From  the  hour  when  he 
bound  up  Brydon's  head,  Judith's  fingers  aid- 
ing him,  he  felt  a  spring  in  his  blood  new  to  him. 


I 


' 


'   ; 


r 


:    f 


i'K 


I82 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


r 


When  he  came  to  know  exactly  what  it  meant, 
and  acted,  it  was  too  late.  He  was  much  sur- 
prised that  his  advances  were  gently  repulsed. 
He  pressed  them  hard;  that  was  a  mistake.  He 
had  an  idea,  not  uncommon  in  such  cases,  that 
he  was  conferring  an  honour.  But  he  was  very 
young.  A  gold  medal  in  anatomy  is  likely  to 
turn  a  lad's  head  at  the  start.  He  falls  into  the 
error  that  the  ability  to  demonstrate  the  medulla 
oblongata  should  likewise  suffice  to  convince  the 
heart  of  a  maid.  Pierre  enjoyed  th^  situation; 
he  knew  life  all  round ;  he  had  boxed  the  com- 
pass of  experience.  He  believed  in  Judith. 
The  old  man  interested  him ;  he  was  a  wreck 
out  of  an  unfamiliar  life. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  Pierre  said  to  Brydon  one 
day,  as  they  sat  on  the  high  cross-beams  of  the 
little  bridge,  "  you  can't  kill  it  in  a  man — what 
he  was  born.  Look,  ab  he  piles  up  the  driftwood 
over  there.  Broken  down,  eh  ?  Yes,  but  then 
there  is  something  —  a  manner,  an  eye.  He 
piles  the  wood  like  champagne  bottles.  On  the 
raft,  you  remember,  he  took  off  his  hat  to  death. 
That's  different  altogether  from  us  !  " 

He  gave  a  sidelong  glance  at  Brydon,  and 
saw  a  troubled  look. 

"Yes,"  Brydon  said,  "he  is  different :  and  so 
is  she." 


[| 


;i 


^ 


and 


id  so 


The  Bridge  House 


183 


(( 


She  is  a  lady,"  Pierre  said,  with  slow  em- 
phasis. "She  couldn't  hide  it  if  she  tried.  She 
plays  the  piano,  and  looks  all  silk  in  calico. 
Made  for  this" — he  waved  his  hand  towards  the 
Bridge  House.     "No,  no  !   made  for — " 

He  paused,  smiled  enigmatically,  and  drop- 
ped a  bit  of  wood  on  the  swift  current. 

Brydon  frowned,  then  said  :  "  Well,  made  for 
what,  Pierre?" 

Pierre  looked  over  Brydon's  shoulder,  to- 
wards a  pretty  cottage  on  the  hillside.  "  Made 
for  homes  like  that,  not  this,"  he  said,  and  he 
nodded  first  towards  the  hillside,  then  to  the 
Bridge  House.  (The  cottage  belonged  to  the 
young  doctor.)  A  growl  like  an  animal's  came 
from  Brydon,  and  he  clinched  the  other's  shoul- 
der. Pierre  glanced  at  the  hand,  then  at  Bry- 
don's face,  and  said  sharply  :  "Take  it  away." 

The  hand  dropped,  but  Brydon's  face  was 
hot,  and  his  eyes  were  hard. 

Pierre  continued  :  "  But  then  women  are 
strange.  What  you  expect  they  will  not — no. 
Riches  ?  —  it  is  nothing  ;  houses  like  that  on  the 
hill,  nothing.  They  have  whims.  The  hut  is  as 
good  as  the  house,  with  the  kitchen  in  the  open 
where  the  river  welts  and  washes,  and  a  man  — 
the  great  man  of  the  world  to  them  —  to  play 
the  little  game  of    life  with.    .  .  .  Pshaw !   you 


;  .11 


1 


I 


V  • 


1 


f 


A 


I 


H 


1 84 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


*i' 


are  idle — move;  you  are  thick  in  the  head — 
think  hard  ;  you  like  the  girl — speak  !" 

As  he  said  this,  there  showed  beneath  them 
the  front  timbers  of  a  small  crib  of  logs  with  a 
crew  of  two  men,  making  tor  the  rapids  and  the 
slide  below.  Here  was  an  adventure,  for  run- 
ning the  rapids  with  so  slight  a  craft  and  small 
a  crew  was  smart  work.  Pierre,  measuring  the 
distance,  and  with  a  "  Look  out  below  !  "  swiftly 
let  himself  down  by  his  arms  as  far  as  he  could, 
and  then  dropped  to  the  timbers  as  lightly  as  if 
it  were  a  matter  of  two  feet  instead  of  twelve. 
He  waved  a  hand  to  Brydon,  and  the  crib  shot 
on.  Brydon  sat  eyeing  it  abstractedly  till  it  ran 
into  the  teeth  of  the  rapids,  the  long  oars  of  the 
three  men  rising  and  falling  to  the  monotonous 
cry.  The  sun  set  out  the  men  and  the  craft 
against  the  tall  dark  walls  of  the  river  in  strong 
relief,  and  Brydon  was  carried  away  from  what 
Pierre  had  been  saying.  He  had  a  solid  plea- 
sure in  watching,  and  he  sat  up  with  a  call  of 
delight  when  he  saw  the  crib  drive  at  the  slide. 
Just  glancing  the  edge,  she  shot  through  safely. 
His  face  blazed. 

"  A  pretty  sight,"  said  a  voice  behind  him. 

Without  a  word  he  swung  round,  and  drop- 
ped, more  heavily  than  Pierre,  beside  Judith. 


^ 


The  Bridge  House 


i85 


:ely. 


"It  gets  into  our  bones,"  he  said.  "Of 
course,  though,  it  ain't  the  same  to  you,"  he 
added,  looking  down  at  her  over  his  shoulder. 
"  You  do  n't  care  for  things  so  rough,  mebbe  ?" 

"  I  love  the  river,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  We  *re  a  rowdy  lot,  we  river-drivers.  We 
have  to  be.     It 's  a  rowdy  business." 

"  I  never  noticed  that,"  she  replied,  gravely 
smiling.  "  When  I  was  small  I  used  to  go  to 
the  river-drivers'  camps  with  my  brother,  and 
they  were  always  kind  to  us.  They  used  to  sing 
and  play  the  fiddle,  and  joke  ;  but  I  did  n't  think 
that  they  were  rowdy,  and  I  don't  now.  They 
were  never  rough  with  us." 

"  No  one  'd  ever  be  rough  with  you,"  was  the 
reply. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  said  suddenly,  and  turned  her 
head  away.  She  was  thinking  of  what  the 
young  doctor  had  said  to  her  that  morning ; 
how  like  a  foolish  boy  he  had  acted  :  upbraiding 
her,  questioning  her,  saying  unreasonable  things, 
as  young  egotists  always  do.  In  years  she  was 
younger  than  he,  but  in  wisdom  much  older ;  in 
all  things  more  wise  and  just.  He  had  not 
struck  her,  but  with  his  reckless  tongue  he  had 
cut  her  to  the  heart.  . 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  repeated,  and  her  eyes  ran  up 


I  ' 


!     'I 


I, 


ffl 


I' 


j\ 


K  \ 


i86 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


to  his  face  and  over  his  great  stalwart  body  ; 
and  then  she  leaned  over  the  railing  and  looked 
into  the  water. 

"  I  'd  break  the  man  in  two  that  was  rough 
with  you,"  he  said  between  his  teeth. 

"Would  you?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper. 
Then,  not  giving  him  a  chance  to  reply,  "  We 
are  very  poor,  you  know,  and  some  people  are 
rough  with  the  poor — and  proud.  I  remember," 
she  went  on,  simply,  dreamily,  and  as  if  talking 
to  herself,  "  the  day  when  we  first  came  to  the 
Bridge  House.  I  sat  down  on  a  box  and  looked 
at  the  furniture — it  was  so  little — and  cried. 
Coming  here  seemed  the  last  of  what  grand- 
father used  to  be.  I  could  n't  help  it.  He  sat 
down  too,  and  didn't  say  anything.  He  was 
very  pale,  and  I  saw  that  his  eyes  ached  as  he 
looked  at  me.  Then  I  got  angry  with  myself, 
and  sprang  up  and  went  to  work — and  we  get 
along  pretty  well." 

She  paused  and  sighed  ;  then,  after  a  minute: 
"  I  love  the  river  ;  I  do  n't  believe  I  could  be 
happy  away  from  it.  I  should  like  to  live  on  it, 
and  die  on  it,  and  be  buried  in  it." 

His  eyes  were  on  her  eagerly.  But  she  looked 
so  frail  and  dainty,  that  his  voice,  to  himself, 
sounded  rude.  Still,  his  hand  blundered  along 
the  railing  .'o  hers,  and  covered  it  tenderly— 


The  Bridge  House 


i8; 


for  so  big  a  hand.  She  drew  her  fingers  away, 
but  not  very  quickly.  "  Do  n't,"  she  said,  "and 
— and  some  one  is  coming  !  " 

There  were  footsteps  behind  them.  It  was 
her  grandfather,  carrying  a  board  fished  from 
the  river.  He  grasped  the  situation,  and  stood 
speechless  with  wonder.  He  had  never  thought 
of  this.  He  was  a  gentleman,  in  spite  of  all,  and 
this  man  was  a  common  river-boss.  Presently  he 
drew  himself  up  with  an  air.  The  heavy  board 
was  still  in  his  arms.  Brydon  came  over  and 
took  the  board,  looking  him  squarely  in  the  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Rupert,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  ask  some- 
thing." 

The  old  man  nodded. 

"I  helped  you  out  of  a  bad  scrape  on  the 
river  ?  " 

Again  the  old  man  nodded. 

"  Well,  mebbe,  I  saved  your  life.  For  that 
I  'm  going  to  ask  you  to  draw  no  more  drift- 
wood from  the  Madawaska — not  a  stick,  now  or 


ever, 


>> 


"  It  is  the  only  way  we  can  keep  from  freez- 
ing in  winter."  Mr.  Rupert  scarcely  knew  what 
he  said. 

Brydon  looked  at  Judith,  who  turned  away, 
then  answered  :  "77/  keep  you  from  freezing, 
if  you  '11  let  me,  you — and  Judith." 


I 


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■•) 


m 


'  TV  i 


I 


If 


188 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


"Oh,  please  let  us  go  into  the  house,"  Judith 
said  hastily. 

She  saw  the  young  doctor  driving  towards 
them  out  of  the  covered  bridge ! 

When  Brydon  went  to  join  his  men  far  down 
the  river  he  left  a  wife  behind  him  at  the  Bridge 
House,  where  she  and  her  grandfather  were  to 
stay  until  the  next  summer.  Then  there  would 
be  a  journey  from  Bamber's  Boom  to  a  new  home. 

In  the  late  autumn  he  came,  before  he  went 
away  to  the  shanties  in  the  backwoods,  and  again 
in  the  winter  just  before  the  baby  was  born. 
Then  he  went  far  up  the  river  to  Rice  Lake  and 
beyond,  to  bring  down  the  drives  of  logs  for  his 
Company.  June  came,  and  then  there  was  a 
sudden  sorrow  at  the  Bridge  House.  How 
great  it  was,  Pierre's  words  as  he  stood  at  the 
door  one  evening  will  testify.  He  said  to  the 
young  doctor :  "  Save  the  child,  and  you  shall 
have  back  the  I.O.U.  on  your  house:"  which 
was  also  evidence  that  the  young  doctor  had 
fallen  into  the  habit  of  gambling. 

The  young  doctor  looked  hard  at  him.  He 
had  a  selfish  nature.  "  You  can  only  do  what 
you  can  do,"  he  said. 

Pierre's  eyes  were  sinister.  "If  you  do  not 
save  it,  one  would  guess  why." 

The  other  started,  flushed,  was  silent,  and 


The  Bridge  House 


189 
\Vc 


then  said  :    "  You   think   I  *m  a  coward, 
shall  sec.     There  is  a  way,  but  it  may  fail." 

And  though  he  sucked  the  diphtheria  poison 
from  the  child's  throat,  it  died  the  next  night. 

Still,  the  cottage  that  Pierre  and  Company 
had  won  was  handed  back  with  such  good  ad- 
vice as  only  a  world-wise  adventurer  can  give. 

Of  the  child's  death  its  father  did  not  know. 
They  were  not  certain  where  he  was.  But  when 
the  mother  took  to  her  bed  again,  the  young 
doctor  said  it  was  best  that  Brydon  should  come. 
Pierre  had  time  and  inclination  to  go  for  him. 
But  before  he  went  he  was  taken  to  Judith's  bed- 
side. Pierre  had  seen  life  and  death  in  many 
forms,  but  never  anything  quite  like  this :  a 
delicate  creature  floating  away  ui)on  a  summer 
current :  travelling  in  those  valleys  which  are 
neither  of  this  life  nor  of  that ;  but  where  you 
hear  the  echoes  of  both,  and  are  visited  by  solic- 
itous spirits.  There  was  no  pain  in  her  face — 
she  heard  a  little,  familiar  voice  from  high  and 
pleasant  hills,  and  she  knew,  so  wise  are  the 
dying,  that  her  husband  was  travelling  after  her, 
and  that  they  would  all  be  together  soon.  But 
she  did  not  speak  of  that.  For  the  knowledge 
born  of  such  a  time  is  locked  up  in  the  soul. 

Pierre  was  awe-stricken.  Unconsciously  he 
crossed  himself. 


i 

i 

i 

III 


•  i 


1 90 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


"Tell  him  to  come  quickly,"  she  said,  "if 
you  find  him  " — her  fingers  played  with  the  cov- 
erlet—  "for  I  wish  to  comfort  him.  .  .  .  Some- 
one said  that  you  were  bad,  Pierre.  I  do  not 
believe  it.  You  were  sorry  when  my  baby  went 
away.  I  am — going  away — too.  But  do  not 
tell  him  that.  Tell  him  I  cannot  walk  about. 
I  want  him  to  carry  me — to  carry  me.  Will 
you?" 

Pierre  put  out  his  hand  to  hers  creeping 
along  the  coverlet  to  him ;  but  it  was  only  in- 
stinct that  guided  him,  for  he  could  not  see. 
He  started  on  his  journey  with  his  hat  pulled 
down  over  his  eyes. 

One  evening  when  the  river  was  very  high 
and  it  was  said  that  Brydon's  drives  of  logs 
would  soon  be  down,  a  strange  thing  happened 
at  the  Bridge  House. 

The  young  doctor  had  gone,  whispering  to 
Mr.  Rupert  that  he  would  come  back  later.  He 
went  out  on  tiptoe,  as  from  the  presence  of  an 
angel.  His  selfishness  had  dropped  away  from 
him.  The  evening  wore  on,  and  in  the  little 
back  room  a  woman's  voice  said  : 

"  Is  it  morning  yet,  father  ?" 

"  It  is  still  day.  The  sun  has  not  set,  my 
child." 

"  I  thought  it  had  gone,  it  seemed  so  dark." 


ju 


The  Bridge  House  igi 

"You  have  been  asleep,  Judith.     You  have 
come  out  of  the  dark." 

*'  No,  I  have  come  out  into  the  darkness 

into  the  world." 

"You  will  see  better   when   you   are   quite 
awake." 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  the  river,  father.     Will 
you  go  and  look  ?  " 

Then    there   was   a   silence.      "Well?"  she 
asked. 

"It  is  beautiful,"  he  said,   "and  the  sun  is 
still  bright." 

"You  see  as  far  as  Indian  Island  ?" 
"I  can  see  the  white  comb  of  the  reef  beyond 
it,  my  dear." 

"And  no  one — is  coming  ?" 

"There  are  men  making  for  the  shore,  and  the 
tires  are  burning,  but  no  one  is  coming  this 
way.  ...  He  would  come  by  the  road, 
perhaps." 

"Oh  no,  by  the  river.  Pierre  has  not  found 
him.     Can  you  see  the  f:ddy  ?" 

"Yes.  It  is  all  quiet  there;  nothing  but  the 
logs  tossing  round  it." 

"We  used  to  sit  there— he  and  I— by  the  big 
cedar  tree.  Everything  was  so  cool  and  sweet. 
There  was  only  the  sound  of  the  force-pump  and 
the  swallowing  of  the   Eddy.     They  say  that  a 


i  ■ 


.1  )| 


\ 
I, 


If  t 


192 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


woman  was  drowned  there,  and  that  you  can  see 
her  face  in  the  water,  if  you  happen  there  at 
sunrise,  weeping  and  smiling  also :  a  picture  in 
the  water.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  it  true,  father?" 

"Life  is  so  strange,  and  who  knows  what  is 
not  life,  my  child?" 

"When  baby  'as  dying  I  held  it  over  the 
water  beneath  that  window,  where  the  sunshine 
falls  in  the  evening ;  and  it  looked  down  once 
before  its  spirit  passed  like  a  breath  over  my 
face.  Maybe,  its  look  will  stay,  for  him  to  see 
when  he  comes.  It  was  just  below  where  you 
stand.  .  .  .  Father,  can  you  see  its  face?" 

"No,  Judith;  nothing  but  the  water  and  the 
sunshine!" 

"Dear,  carry  me  to  the  window." 

When  this  was  done  she  suddenly  leaned 
forward  with  shining  eyes  and  anxious  fingers. 
"My  baby  !  My  baby  !"  she  said. 

She  looked  up  the  river,  but  her  eyes  were 
fading,  she  could  not  see  far.  "It  is  ail  a  grey 
light,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot  see  well."  Yet  she 
smiled.  "Lay  me  down  again,  father,"  she 
whispered. 

After  a  little  she  sank  into  a  slumber.  All  at 
once  she  started  up.  "The  river,  the  beautiful 
river ! "  she  cried  out  gently.  Then,  at  the  last, 
"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!" 


< .  t 


The  Bridge  House 


193 


were 

grey 
she 
she 


And  so  she  came  out  of  the  valley  into  the 
high  hills. 

Later  he  was  left  alone  with  his  dead.  The 
young  doctor  and  others  had  come  and  gone. 
He  would  watch  till  morning.  He  sat  long  be- 
side her,  numb  to  the  world.  At  last  he  started, 
for  he  heard  a  low,  clear  call  behind  the  House. 
He  went  out  quickly  to  the  little  platform,  and 
saw  through  the  dusk  a  man  drawing  himself  up. 
It  was  Brydon.  He  caught  the  old  man's 
shoulders  convulsively.  "How  is  she?"  he 
asked. 

"  Come  in,  ray  son,"  was  the  low  reply.  The 
old  man  saw  a  grief  greater  than  his  own.  He 
led  the  husband  to  the  room  where  the  wife  lay 
beautiful  and  still. 

"She  is  better,  as  you  see,"  he  said  bravely. 

The  hours  went,  and  the  two  sat  near  the 
body,  one  on  either  side.  They  knew  not  what 
was  going  on  in  the  world. 

As  they  mourned,  Pierre  and  the  young  doctor 
sat  silent  in  that  cottage  on  the  hillside.  They 
were  roused  at  last.  There  came  up  to  Pierre's 
keen  ears  the  sound  of  the  river. 

Let  us  go  out,"  he  said  ;  "the  river  is  flood- 


« 


mg. 


You  can  hear  the  logs." 


They  came  out  and  watched.   The  river  went 
swishing,  swilling  past,  and  the  dull  boom  of  the 


(; 


I 


^l 


*»« 'I 


,  * 


194 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


logs  as  they  struck  the  piers  of  the  bridge  or 
some  building  on  the  shore  came  rolling  to 
them. 

"The  dams  and  booms  have  burst!"     Pierre 
said. 

He  pointed  to  the  camps  far  up  the  river. 
By  the  light  of  the  camp-fires  there  appeared  a 
wide  weltering  flood  of  logs  and  debris.  Pierre's 
eyes  shifted  to  the  Bridge  House.  In  one  room 
was  a  light.  He  stepped  out  and  down,  and 
the  other  followed.  They  had  almost  reached 
the  shore,  when  Pierre  cried  out  sharply: 
"What's  that?" 

He  pointed  to  an  indistinct  mass  bearing 
down  upon  the  Bridge  House.  It  was  a  big 
shed  that  had  been  carried  away,  and,  jammed 
between  timbers,  had  not  broken  up.  There 
was  no  time  for  warning.  It  came  on  swiftly, 
heavily.  There  was  a  strange,  horrible,  grinding 
sound,  and  then  they  saw  the  light  of  that  one 
room  move  on,  waving  a  little  to  and  fro — on  to 
the  rapids,  the  cohorts  of  logs  crowding  hard 
after. 

Where  the  light  was  two  men  had  started  to 
their  feet  when  the  crash  came.  They  felt  the 
House  move. 

"Run — save  yourself!"  cried  the  old  man 
quietly.     "  We  are  lost ! " 


If 


«,/ 


195 


The  Bridge  House 
The  floor  rocked. 
;;Go,"  he  said  again.     -I  will  stay  with  her." 
She  IS  mine,"  Brydon  said;  and  he  took  her 
in  his  arms.     "I  will  not  go." 

They  could  hear  the  rapids  below.  The  old 
man  steadied  himself  in-  the  deep  water  on  the 
hands  ''"^^'   """'  yearningly  at   the   cold 

''Come    close,   come   close,"    said   Brydon. 
Closer;  put  your  arms  round  her  " 
Mr.   Rupert  did   so.     They  were  locked  in 
each  other's  arms— dead  and  living. 

The  old  man  spoke,  with  a  piteous  kind  of 
joy  : 

'^m  therefore  commit  her  body  to  the  deep^i- 
The  three  were  never  found. 


11 


The  Epaulettes 


Old  Athabasca,  chief  of  the  Little  Crees,  sat 
at  the  door  of  his  lodge,  staring  down  into  the 
valley  where  Fort  Pentecost  lay,  and  Mitawawa 
his  daughter  sat  near  him,  fretfully  pulling  at 
the  fringe  of  her  fine  buckskin  jacket.  She 
had  reason  to  be  troubled.  Fyles  the  trader 
had  put  a  great  indignity  upon  Athabasca.  A 
factor  of  twenty  years  before,  in  recognition  of 
the  chief's  merits  and  in  reward  of  his  services, 
had  presented  him  with  a  pair  of  epaulettes, 
left  in  the  fort  by  some  officer  in  Her  Majesty's 
service.  A  good,  solid,  honest  pair  of  epau- 
lettes, well  fitted  to  stand  the  wear  and  tear  of 
those  high  feasts  and  functions  at  which  the 
chief  paraded  them  upon  his  broad  shoulders. 
They  were  the  admiration  of  his  own  tribe, 
the  wonder  of  others,  and  the  envy  of  many 
chiefs.  It  was  said  that  Athabasca  wore  them 
creditably,  and  was  no  more  immobile  and 
grand-mannered  than  became  a  chief  thus 
honored  above  his  kind. 

196 


The  Epaulettes 


19; 


But  the  years  went,  and  there  came  a  man 
to  Fort  Pentecost  that  knew  not  Athabasca. 
He  was  young,  and  tall  and  strong,  had  a  hot 
temper,  knew  naught  of  human  nature,  was 
possessed  by  a  pride  more  masterful  than  his 
wisdom,  and  a  courage  stronger  than  his  tact. 
He  was  ever  for  high-handedness,  brooked  no 
interference,  and  treated  the  Indians  more  as 
Company's  serfs  than  as  Company's  friends  and 
allies.  Also,  he  had  an  eye  for  Mitawawa,  and 
found  favor  in  return,  though  to  what  depth  it 
took  a  long  time  to  show.  The  girl  sat  high  in 
the  minds  and  desires  of  the  young  braves,  for 
she  had  beauty  of  a  heathen  kind,  a  deft  and 
dainty  finger  for  embroidered  buckskin,  a  par- 
ticular fortune  with  a  bow  and  arrow,  and  the 
fleetest  foot. 

There  were  mutterings  now  because  Fyles 
the  white  man  came  to  sit  often  in  Athabasca's 
lodge.  He  knew  of  this,  but  heeded  not  at 
all.  At  last  Konto,  a  young  brave,  who  very 
accurately  guessed  at  Fyles'  intentions,  stopped 
him  one  day  on  the  Grey  Horse  Trail,  and  in  a 
soft,  indolent  voice  begged  him  to  prove  his 
regard,  in  a  fight  without  weapons,  to  the  death, 
the  survivor  to  give  the  other  burial  where  he 
fell.  Fyles  was  neither  fool  nor  coward.  It 
would  have  been  foolish  to  run  the  risk  of  leav- 


§ 


I 


] 


ft 


198 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


ing  Fort  and  people  masterless  for  an  Indian's 
whim;  it  would  have  been  cowardly  to  do  noth- 
ing. So  he  whipped  out  a  revolver,  and  bade 
his  rival  march  before  him  to  the  Fort,  which 
Konto  very  calmly  did,  begging  the  favor  of  a 
bit  of  tobacco  as  he  went. 

Fyles  demanded  of  Athabasca  that  he  should 
sit  in  judgment  and  should  at  least  banish 
Konto  from  his  tribe,  hinting  the  while  that  he 
might  have  to  put  a  bullet  into  Konto's  refrac- 
tory head  if  the  thing  were  not  done.  He  said 
large  things  in  the  name  of  the  H.  B.  C,  and 
was  surprised  that  Athabasca  let  them  pass  un- 
moved. But  that  chief,  after  long  considera- 
tion, during  which  he  drank  Company's  coffee 
and  ate  Company's  pemmican,  declared  that  he 
could  do  nothing,  for  Konto  had  made  a  fine 
offer,  and  a  grand  chance  of  a  great  fight  had 
been  missed. 

This  was  in  the  presence  of  several  petty 
officers  and  Indians  and  woodsmen  at  the  Fort. 
Fyles  had  vanity  and  a  nasty  temper.  He 
swore  a  little,  and  with  words  of  bluster  went 
over  and  ripped  the  epaulettes  from  the  chief's 
shoulders,  as  a  punishment,  a  mark  of  degrada- 
tion. The  chief  said  nothing.  He  got  up,  and 
reached  out  his  hands  as  if  to  ask  them  back; 
and  when  Fyles  refused,  he  went  away,  drawing 


The  Epaulettes 


199 


petty 

Fort. 

He 

went 

:hief's 

rrada- 
,  and 
back; 

lawing 


his  blanket  high  over  his  shoulders.  It  was 
wont  before  to  lie  loosely  about  him,  to  show 
his  badges  of  captaincy  and  alliance. 

This  was  about  the  time  that  the  Indians 
were  making  ready  for  the  buffalo,  and  when 
their  chief  took  to  his  lodge  and  refused  to 
leave  it  they  came  to  ask  him  why.  And  they 
were  told.  They  were  for  making  trouble,  but 
the  old  chief  said  the  quarrel  was  his  own:  he 
would  settle  it  in  his  own  way.  He  would  not 
go  to  the  hunt.  Konto,  he  said,  should  take 
his  place;  and  when  his  braves  came  back  there 
should  be  great  feasting,  for  then  the  matter 
would  be  ended. 

Half  the  course  of  the  moon  and  more,  and 
Athabasca  came  out  of  his  lodge — the  first  time 
in  the  sunlight  since  the  day  of  his  disgrace. 
He  and  his  daughter  sat  silent  and  watchful  at 
the  door.  There  had  been  no  word  between 
Fyles  and  Athabasca,  no  word  between  Mita- 
wawa  and  Fyles.  The  fort  was  well-nigh  ten- 
antless,  for  the  half-breeds  also  had  gone  after 
buffalo,  and  only  the  trader,  a  clerk,  and  a  half- 
breed  cook  were  left. 

Mitawawa  gave  a  little  cry  of  impatience: 
she  had  held  her  peace  so  long  that  even  her 
slow  Indian  nature  could  endure  no  more. 
"What   will   my   father    Athabasca    do?"   she 


1^ 


( 


(> 

h 


} 


200 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


asked.     "  With  idleness  the  flesh  grows  soft,  and 
the  iron  melts  from  the  arm." 

"  But  when  the  thoughts  are  stone,  the  body 
is  that  of  the  Mighty  Men  of  the  Kimash  Hills. 
When  the  bow  is  long  drawn,  beware  the  ar- 


row. 


M 


"il 


"It  is  no  answer,"  she  said;  "what  will  my 
father  do?" 

"They  were  of  gold,"  he  answered,  "that 
never  grew  rusty.  My  people  were  full  of  won- 
der when  they  stood  before  me,  and  the  tribes 
had  envy  as  they  passed.  It  is  a  hundred 
moons  and  one  red  mid-summer  moon  since  the 
Great  Company  put  them  on  my  shoulders. 
They  were  light  to  carry,  but  it  was  as  if  I  bore 
an  army.  No  other  chief  was  like  me.  That  is 
all  over.  When  the  tribes  pass  they  will  laugn, 
and  my  people  will  scorn  me  if  I  do  not  come 
out  to  meet  them  with  the  yokes  of  gold." 

"But  what  will  my  father  do  ?"  she  persisted. 

"I  have  had  many  thoughts,  and  at  night  I 
have  called  on  the  Spirits  who  rule.  From  the 
top  of  the  Hill  of  Graves  I  have  beaten  the  soft 
diam,  and  called,  and  sung  the  hymn  which 
wakes  the  sleeping  Spirits :  and  I  know  the 
way." 

"What  is  the  way?"  Her  eyes  filled  with  a 
kind  of  fear  or  trouble,  and  many  times  they 


>   M 


The  Epaulettes 


201 


ar- 


ted. 
ht  I 

the 
soft 
lich 

the 

th  a 
they 


shifted  from  the  Fort  to  her  tathcr,  and  hack 
again.  The  chief  was  silent.  Then  anger  leapt 
into  her  face. 

"Why  does  my  father  fear  to  speak  to  his 
child?"  she  said.  "I  will  speak  plain.  I  love 
the  man ;  but  I  love  my  father  also." 

She  stood  up,  and  drew  her  blanket  about 
her,  one  hand  clasped  proudly  on  her  breast.  "  I 
cannot  remember  my  mother ;  but  I  remember 
when  I  first  looked  down  from  my  hammock  in 
the  pine  tree,  and  saw  my  father  sitting  by  the 
fire.  It  was  in  the  evening  like  this,  but  darker, 
for  the  pines  made  great  shadows.  I  cried  out, 
and  he  came  and  took  me  down,  and  laid  me 
between  his  knees,  and  fed  me  with  bits  of  meat 
from  the  pot.  He  talked  much  to  me,  and  his 
voice  was  finer  than  any  other.  There  is  no 
one  like  my  father  —  Konto  is  nothing;  but  the 
voice  of  the  white  man,  Fyles,  had  golden 
words  that  our  braves  do  not  know,  and  I  lis- 
tened. Konto  did  a  brave  thing.  Fyles,  be- 
cause he  was  a  great  man  of  the  Company, 
would  not  fight,  and  drove  him  like  a  dog. 
Then  he  made  my  father  as  a  worm  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world.  I  would  give  my  life  for  Fyles 
the  trader,  but  I  would  give  more  than  my  life 
to  wipe  out  my  father's  shame,  and  to  show  that 
Konto  of  the  Little  Crees  is  no  dog.     I  I  xvc 


*i*- 


I 


202 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


been  carried  by  the  hands  of  the  old  men  of  my 
people,  I  have  ridden  the  horses  of  the  young 
men  ;  their  shame  is  my  shame." 

The  eyes  of  the  chief  had  never  lifted  from 
the  Fort ;  nor  from  his  look  could  you  have 
lold  that  he  heard  his  daughter's  words.  For  a 
moment  he  was  silent,  then  a  deep  fire  came 
into  his  eyes,  and  his  wide  heavy  brows  drew  up 
so  that  the  frown  of  anger  was  gone.  At  last, 
as  she  waited,  he  arose,  put  out  a  hand  and 
touched  her  forehead. 

"Mitawawa  has  spoken  well,"  he  said. 
"There  will  be  an  end.  The  yokes  of  gold  are 
mine;  an  honour  given  cannot  betaken  away. 
He  has  stolen ;  he  is  a  thief.  He  would  not 
fight  Konto ;  but  I  am  a  chief  and  he  shall  fight 
me.  I  am  as  great  as  many  men  —  I  have  car- 
ried the  golden  yokes ;  we  will  fight  for  them. 
I  thought  long,  for  I  was  afraid  my  daughter 
loved  the  man  more  than  her  people ;  but  now  I 
will  break  him  in  pieces.  Has  Mitawawa  seen 
him  since  the  shameful  day?" 

"He  has  come  to  the  lodge,  but  I  would  not 
let  him  in  unless  he  brought  the  epaulettes.  He 
said  he  would  bring  them  when  Konto  was  pun- 
ished. I  begged  of  him  as  I  never  begged  of 
my  own  father,  but  he  was  hard  as  the  ironwood 


A 


The  Epaulettes 


203 


f  my 
jung 

from 
have 
For  a 
came 
iw  up 
:  last, 
i  and 

said, 
lid  are 

away, 
[d  not 
il  fight 
e  car- 

them. 
jughter 

now  I 
la  seen 

^d  not 
[s.  He 
Is  pun- 
jged  of 
iwood 


tree.  I  sent  him  away.  Yet  there  is  no  tongue 
nice  his  in  the  world;  he  is  tall  and  beautiful, 
and  has  the  face  of  a  s[)irit." 

From  the  Fort  Fyles  watched  the  two.  With 
a  pair  of  field-glasses  he  could  follow  tiicir  ac- 
tions, could  almost  read  their  faces.  "There'll 
be  a  lot  of  sulking  about  those  epaulettes,  Mal- 
lory,"  he  said  at  last,  turning  to  his  clerk.  "Old 
Athabasca  has  a  bee  in  his  bonnet." 

"Wouldn  't  it  be  just  as  well  to  give  'em  back, 
sir?"  Mallory  had  been  at  Fort  Pentecost  a 
long  time,  and  he  understood  Athabasca  and  his 
Indians.  He  was  a  solid,  slow-thinking  old  fel- 
low, but  he  had  that  wisdom  of  the  north  which 
can  turn  from  dove  to  serpent  and  from  serpent 
to  lion  in  the  moment. 

"Give  'em  back,  Mallory ?  I'll  see  him  in 
Jericho  first,  unless  he  goes  on  his  marrow-bones 
and  kicks  Konto  out  of  the  camp." 

"Very  well,  sir.  But  I  think  we'd  better 
keep  an  eye  open." 

"  Eye  open,  be  hanged  1  If  he  'd  been  going 
to  riot  he  'd  have  done  so  before  this.  Besides, 
the  girl—!" 

Mallory  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  his 
master,  whose  forehead  was  glued  to  the  field- 
glass.     His  little  eyes  moved  as  if  in  debate,  his 


I 


204 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


slow  jaws  opened  once  or  twice.  At  last  he 
said  :  "I'd  give  the  girl  the  go-by,  Mr.  Fyles,  if 
I  was  you,  unless  I  meant  to  marry  her." 

Fyles  suddenly  sv/ung  round.  ''Keep  your 
place,  blast  you,  Mallory,  and  keep  your  morals 
too.  One'd  think  you  were  a  missionary." 
Then  with  a  sudden  burst  of  anger  :  "  Damn  it 
all,  if  my  men  don't  stand  by  me  against  a  pack 
of  treacherous  Indians,  I'd  better  get  out." 

"Your  men  will  stand  by  you,  sir;  no  fear. 
I've  served  three  traders  here,  and  my  record  is 
pretty  clean,  Mr.  Fyles.  But  I  '11  say  it  to  your 
face,  whether  you  like  it  or  not,  that  you're  not 
as  good  a  judge  of  the  Injin  as  me,  or  even  Due 
the  cook;  and  that's  straight  as  I  can  say  it,  Mr. 
Fyles." 

Fyles  paced  up  and  down  in  anger — not 
speaking ;  but  presently  threw  up  the  glass  and 
looked  towards  Athabasca's  lodge.  "They're 
gone,"  he  said  presently;  "I'll  go  and  see  them 
to-morrow.  The  old  fool  must  do  what  I  want 
or  there'll  be  ructions." 

The  moon  was  high  over  Fort  Pentecost 
when  Athabasca  entered  the  silent  yard.  The 
dogs  growled,  but  Indian  dogs  growl  without 
reason,  and  no  one  heeds  them.  The  old  chief 
stood  a  moment  looking  at  the  windows,  upon 
which  slush-lights  were  throwing  heavy  shadows. 


^ 


1  * 


The  Epaulettes  205 

He  went  to  Fyles'  window;  no  one  was  in  the 
room.     He  went  to  another;  Mallory  and  Due 
were  sitting  at  a  table.     Mallory  had  the  epau- 
lettes, looking  at  them,  and  fingering  the  hooks 
by  which  Athabasca  had  fastened  them  on.    Due 
was  laughing;  he  reached  over  for  an  epaulette, 
tossed  it  up,  caught  it  and  threw  it  down  with  a 
guffaw.     Then  the  door  opened,  and  Athabasca 
walked  in,  seized  the  epaulettes,  and  went  swift- 
ly out   again.     Just   outside   the  door  Mallory 
clapped    a   hand    on    one    shoulder,    and  Due 
caught  at  the  epaulettes. 

Athabasca  struggled  wildly.  All  at  once 
there  was  a  cold  white  flash,  and  Due  came 
huddling  to  Mallory's  feet.  For  a  brief  instant 
Mallory  and  the  Indian  fell  apart,  then  Atha- 
basca with  a  contemptuous  fairness  tossed  his 
knife  away,  and  ran  in  on  his  man.  They 
closed;  strained,  swayed,  became  a  tangled 
wrenching  mass;  and  then  Mallory  was  lifted 
high  into  the  air,  and  came  down  with  a  broken 
back. 

Athabasca  picked  up  the  epaulettes,  and  hur- 
ried away,  breathing  hard,  and  hugging  them  to 
his  bare,  red-stained  breast.  He  had  nearly 
reached  the  gate  when  he  heard  a  cry.  He  did 
not  turn,  but  a  heavy  stone  caught  him  high  in 
the  shoulders,  and  he  fell  on  his  face  and  lay 


tl 


206 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


% 


I 


clutching  the  epaulettes  in  his  outstretched 
hands. 

Fyles'  own  hands  were  yet  lifted  with  the 
effort  of  throwing  when  he  heard  the  soft  rush 
of  footsteps  and  someone  came  swiftly  into  his 
embrace.  A  pair  of  arms  ran  round  his  shoul- 
ders— lips  closed  with  his — something  ice-cold 
and  hard  touched  his  neck — he  saw  a  bright 
flash  at  his  throat. 

In  the  morning  Konto  found  Mitawawa  sit- 
ting with  wild  eyes  by  her  father's  body.  She 
had  fastened  the  epaulettes  on  its  shoulders. 
Fyles  and  his  men  made  a  grim  triangle  of  death 
at  the  door  of  the  Fort. 


i 


tretched 

I'ith  the 
Dft  rush 
into  his 
3  shoul- 
ice-cold 
:  bright 

awa  sit- 
y.  She 
oulders. 
)f  death 


The  Finding  of  Fingall 

''Fingail!   Fingall  f     Oh,  Fingall'- 
A  grey  mist  was  rising  from  the  river,  the 
sun  was  drinlcing  it  delightedly,  the  swift  blue 
water    showed    underneath  it,   and  the  top  of 
Whitefaced    Mountain    peaked    the  mist  by  a 
hand-length.     The  river  brushed  the  banks  like 
rustling  silk,  and  the   only  other  sound,  very 
sharp  and  clear  in  the  liquid  monotone,  was  the 
crack  of  a  woodpecker's  beak  on  a  hickory  tree 
It  was  a  sweet,  fresh  autumn    morning  in 
Lonesome  Valley.     Before  night  the  deer  would 
bellow  reply  to  the  hunters'  rifles,  and  the  moun- 
tain-goat  call  to  its  unknown  gods ;  but  now 
there  was  only  the  wild  duck  skimming  the  river 
and  the  high  hill-top  rising  and  fading  into  the 
mist,  the  ardent  sun,  and  again  that  strange  cry 
"Ftngall/     Oh,  Fingall/  Fingall r 
Two  men,  lounging  at  a  fire  on  a  ledge  of 
the  hills,  raised  their  eyes  to  the  mountain-side 
beyond  and  above  them,  and  one  said  presently  • 

PierJe^''  '^''''"'^   ^'°'^'     ^^''  ^  ^"^^^^^'^  voice, 

207 


! 

,11 


208 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


1!' 


'II 


i 


V'' 


^^1 


U 


r 


Pierre  nodded,  and  abstractedly  stirred  the 
coals  about  with  a  twig. 

"  Well,  it  is  a  pity — the  poor  Cynthie,"  he 
said  at  last. 

"  It  is  a  woman,  then.     You  know  her,  Pierre 
— her  story?" 

''Fingall!  Fingall !  Oh,  Fhigall !'' 

Pierre  raised  his  head  towards  the  sound  ; 
then  after  a  moment,  said : 

"  I  know  Fingall." 

"And  the  woman  ?    Tell  me." 

"And  the  girl.  Fingall  was  all  fire  and 
heart,  and  devil-may-care.  She — she  was  not 
beautiful  except  in  the  eye,  but  that  was  like  a 
flame  of  red  and  blue.  Her  hair,  too — then — 
would  trip  her  up,  if  it  hung  loose.  That  was 
all,  except  that  she  loved  him  too  much.  But 
women — et  puis,  when  a  woman  gets  a  man  be- 
tween her  and  the  heaven  above  and  the  earth 
beneath,  and  there  comes  the  great  hunger, 
what  is  the  good  ?  A  man  cannot  understand, 
but  he  can  see  and  he  can  fear.  What  is  the 
good  !  To  play  with  life,  that  is  not  much ;  but 
to  play  with  soul  is  more  than  a  thousand  lives. 
Look  at  Cynthie." 

He  paused,  and  Lawless  waited  patiently. 
Presently  Pierre  continued: 

Fingall  vfdiSgentil ;  he  would  take  off  his  hat 


(( 


The  Finding  of  Fingall  209 

to  a  squaw.  It  made  no  difference  what  others 
did,  he  didn't  think  — it  was  like  breathing  to 
him.  How  can  you  tell  the  way  things  happen? 
Cynthie's  father  kept  the  tavern  at  St.  Gabriel's 
Fork,  over  against  the  great  sawmill.  Fingall 
was  foreman  of  a  gang  in  the  lumber-yard. 
Cynthie  had  a  brother— Fenn.  Fenn  was  as  bad 
as  they  make,  but  she  loved  him,  and  Fingall 
knew  it  well,  though  he  hated  the  young  skunk. 
The  girl's  eyes  were  like  two  little  fireflies  when 
Fingall  was  about. 

"He  was  a  gentleman,  though  he  had  only 
half  a  name— Fingall-iike  that.  I  think  he  did 
not  expect  to  stay;  he  seemed  to  be  waiting  for 
something— always  when  the  mail  come  in  he 
would  be  there;  and  afterwards  you  wouldn't 
see  him  for  a  time.  So  it  seemed  to  me  that  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  think  nothing  of  Cynthie, 
and  to  say  nothing." 

''Fingall!  Fingall!     Oh,  Fingall!'' 

The   strange,   sweet,  singing  voice  sounded 
nearer. 

"She's  coming  this  way,   Pierre,"  said   Law- 
less. 

"I  hope  not  to  see  her.     What  is  the  good?" 
"Well,  let  us  have  the  rest  of  the  story." 
"Her  brother  Fenn  was   in   Fingall's  gang. 
One  day  there  was  trouble.     Fenn  called   Fin- 


210 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


H-  . 


u. 


gall  a  liar.  The  gang  stopped  piling;  the  usual 
thing  did  not  come.  Fingall  told  him  to  leave 
the  yard,  and  they  would  settle  some  other  time. 
That  night  a  wicked  thing  happened.  We  were 
sitting  in  the  bar-room  when  we  heard  two  shots 
and  then  a  fall.  We  ran  into  the  other  room  ; 
there  was  Fenn  on  the  floor,  dying.  He  lifted 
himself  on  his  elbow,  pointed  at  Fingall — and 
fell  back.  The  father  of  the  boy  stood  white 
and  still  a  few  feet  away.  There  was  no  pistol 
showing — none  at  all. 

"The  men  closed  in  on  Fingall.  He  did  not 
stir — he  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  something 
else.  He  had  a  puzzled,  sorrowful  look.  The 
men  roared  round  him,  but  he  waved  them  back 
for  a  moment,  and  looked  first  at  the  father, 
then  at  the  son.  I  could  not  understand  at  first. 
Someone  pulled  a  pistol  out  of  Fingall's  pocket 
and  showed  it.  At  that  moment  Cynthie  came 
in.  She  gave  a  cry.  By  the  holy !  I  do  not 
want  to  hear  a  cry  like  that  often  !  She  fell  on 
her  knees  beside  the  boy,  and  caught  his  head  to 
her  breast.  Then  with  a  wild  look  she  asked 
who  did  it.  They  had  just  taken  Fingall  out 
into  the  bar-room.  They  did  not  tell  her  his 
name,  for  they  knew  that  she  loved  him. 

" '  Father,'  she  said  all  at  once,  *  have  you 
killed  the  man  that  killed  Fenn  ?' 


I'he  Finding  of  Fingall 


the  usual 
to  leave 
her  time. 
We  were 
wo  shots 
r  room  ; 
He  lifted 
all — and 
od  white 
10  pistol 

2  did  not 
(raething 
)k.  The 
lem  back 
e  father, 
d  at  first. 
's  pocket 
lie  came 
[  do  not 
le  fell  on 
s  head  to 
le  asked 
igall  out 
.  her  his 
t. 
lave  you 


211 

''The  old  man  shook  his  head.     There  was  a 
sick  color  in  his  face. 

"'Then  I  will  kill  him,' she  said 
"She  laid  her  brother's  head  down,  and  stood 
up.     Someone  put  in  her  hand  the  pistol,  and 
told  her  It  was  thesame  that  had  killed  Fenn.    She 

still  w'  '    .  """""  "''^  "^-     ^^^  ^^d  ™-"  stood 
tillw^^^^^  IJooked 

ound  and  went  to  the  bar-room;  and  he  fol- 
lowed.     Just  as  I  got  inside  the  door,  I  saw  the 

g.r  start  back,  and  her  hand  drop,  for  she  saw 
that  It  was  Fmgall;  he  was  looking  at  her  very 
strange.    It  was  the  rule  to  empty  the  gun  into 

a  man  who  had  been  sentenced  f  and  already 
Fingall  had  heard  his  'God-have-mercy  m  ThI 
girl  was  to  do  it. 

''Fingall  said  to  her  in  a  muffled  voice,  'Fire 
— Cynthie!' 

"I  guessed   what  she  would  do.     In  a  kind 
of  a  dream  she  raised  the  pistol  up-up-up,  till 

LTt  ".'  '?'"  ^""'^  ""^  ^^  ^^"^^  «^  h-  head, 
and   she  fired.     One !  two  !  three!   four!    five ! 

Fingall  never  moved  a  muscle;   but  the  bullets 

spotted  the  wall  at  the  side  of  his  head.     She 

stopped  after  the  five;  but  the  arm  was  still  held 

out,   and   her  finger  was    on  the    tri^^er  •    she 

seemed    to  be    all  dazed.     Only    six  lambers 


212 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


fi 


were  in  the  gun,  and  of  course  one  chamber  was 
empty.  Fenn  had  its  bullet  in  his  lungs,  as  we 
thought.  So  someone  beside  Cynthie  touched 
her  arm,  pushing  it  down.  But  there  was  an- 
other shot,  and  this  time,  because  of  the  push, 
the  bullet  lodged  in  Fingall's  skull." 

Pierre  paused  now,  and  waved  with  his  hand 
toward  the  mist  which  hung  high  up  like  a  can- 
opy between  the  hills. 

"But,"  said  Lawless,  not  heeding  the  scene, 
"what  about  that  sixth  bullet  ?  " 

"  Holy,  it  is  plain  !  Fingall  did  not  Rre  the 
shot.  His  revolver  was  full,  every  chamber,  when 
Cynthie  first  took  it. 

'*  Who  killed  the  lad  ?  " 

'*  Can  you  not  guess  ?  There  had  been 
words  between  the  father  and  the  boy  :  both 
had  fierce  blood.  The  father,  in  a  mad  minute, 
fired  ;  the  boy  wanted  revenge  on  Fingall,  and, 
to  save  his  father,  laid  it  on  the  other.  The 
old  man  ?  Well,  I  do  not  know  whether  he  was 
a  coward,  or  stupid,  or  ashamed — he  let  Fingall 
take  it." 

"  Fingall  took  it  to  spare  the  girl,  eh  ?" 

"  For  the  girl.  It  wasn't  good  for  her  to 
know  her  father  killed  his  own  son." 

"  What  came  after  ?  " 

"  The    worst.     That    night  the  girl's  father 


m  I     ': 


i  I! 


The  Finding  of  Fingall 


213 


was 
5  we 

;hed 

an- 

(ush, 

band 
can- 

cene, 

re  the 
when 


been 
both 
linute, 
I,  and, 
The 
lie  was 
ingall 


her  to 


father 


killed  himself,  and  the  two  were  buried  in  the 
same  grave.     Cynthie — " 

''Fingall !  Fingall  /—  Oh,  Fingall !  " 
"  You  hear  ?  Yes,  like  that  all  the  time  as 
she  sat  on  the  floor,  her  hair  about  her  like  a 
cloud,  and  the  dead  bodies  in  the  next  room. 
She  thought  she  had  killed  Fingall,  and  she 
knew  now  that  he  was  innocent.  The  two  were 
buried.  Then  we  told  her  that  Fingall  was  not 
dead.  She  used  to  come  and  sit  outside  the 
door,  and  listen  to  his  breathing,  and  ask  if  he 
ever  spoke  of  her.  What  was  the  good  of  lying? 
If  we  said  he  did,  she'd  have  come  in  to  him, 
and  that  would  do  no  good,  for  he  wasn't  right 
in  his  mind.  By  and  by  we  told  her  he  was 
getting  well,  and  then  she  did  n't  come,  but 
stayed  at  home,  just  saying  his  name  over  to 
herself.  Alors,  things  take  hold  of  a  woman  — 
it  is  strange  !  When  Fingall  was  strong  enough 
to  go  out,  I  went  with  him  the  first  time.  He 
was  all  thin  and  handsome  as  you  can  think,  but 
he  had  no  memory,  and  his  eyes  were  like  a 
child's.  She  saw  him,  and  came  out  to  meet 
him.  What  does  a  woman  care  for  the  world 
when  she  loves  altogether  ?  Well,  he  just  looked 
at  her  as  if  he 'd- never  seen  her  before,  and 
passed  by  without  a  sign,  though  afterwards  a 
trouble  came  in  his  face.      Three  days  later  he 


■A 


214 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


^/ 


was  gone,  no  one  knew  where.  That  is  two  years 
ago.     Ever  since  she  has  been  looking  for  him." 

"  Is  she  mad  ?" 

*•  Mad  ?  Holy  Mother  !  It  is  not  good  lo 
have  one  thing  in  the  head  all  the  time  !  What 
do  you  think  ?  So  much  all  at  once  !  And 
then  —  " 

**  Hush  !  Pierre!  There  she  is  !"  said  Law- 
less, pointing  to  a  ledge  of  rock  not  far  away. 

The  girl  stood  looking  out  across  the  valley, 
a  weird,  rapt  look  in  her  face,  her  hair  falling 
loose,  a  staff  like  a  shepherd's  crook  in  one 
hand,  the  other  hand  over  her  eyes  as  she  slowly 
lookt'd  from  point  to  poin<^  of  the  horizon. 

The  two  watched  her  without  speaking. 
Presently  she  saw  them.  She  gazed  at  them  for 
a  minute,  then  descended  to  them.  Lawless 
and  Pierre  rose,  doffing  their  hats.  She  looked 
at  both  a  moment,  and  her  eyes  settled  on  Pierre, 
Presently  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  I  knew  you  —  yesterday,"  she  said. 

Pierre  returned  the  intensity  of  her  gaze  with 
one  kind  and  strong. 

"So-so,  Cynthie,"  he  said;  "sit  down  and 
eat." 

He  dropped  on  a  knee  and  drew  a  scone  and 
some  fish  from  the  ashes.  She  sat  facing  them, 
and,  taking  from  a  bag  at   her  side  some  wild 


i    \  !i 


9  ; 


The  Finding  of  Fingall 


215 


fruits,  ate  slowly,  saying  nothing.  Lawless  no- 
ticed that  her  hair  had  become  gray  at  her  tem- 
ples, though  she  was  but  one-and-tvventy  years 
old.  Her  face,  brown  as  it  was,  shone  with  a 
white  kind  of  light,  which  may,  or  may  not, 
have  come  from  the  crucible  of  her  eyes,  where 
the  tragedy  of  her  life  was  fusing.  Lawless 
could  not  bear  to  look  long,  for  the  fire  that 
consumes  a  body  and  sets  free  a  soul  is  not  for 
the  sight  of  the  quick.  At  last  she  rose,  her 
body  steady,  but  her  hands  having  that  tremu- 
lous activity  of  her  eyes. 

"Will  you  not  ytay,  Cynthie  ?"  asked  Law- 
less very  kindly. 

She  came  close  to  him,  and,  after  searching 
his  eyes,  said  with  a  smile  that  almost  hurt  him, 
'•  When  I  have  found  him,  I  will  bring  him  to 
your  camp-fire.  Last  night  the  Voice  said  to 
me  that  he  waits  for  me  where  the  mist  rises 
from  the  river  at  daybreak,  close  to  the  home 
of  the  White  Swan.  Do  you  know  where  is  the 
home  of  the  White  Swan  ?  Before  the  frost 
ccmes  and  the  red  wolf  cries,  I  must  find  him. 
Winter  is  the  time  of  sleep  ;  I  will  give  him 
honey  and  dried  meat.  I  know  where  we  shall 
live  together.  You  never  saw  such  roses  I 
Hush  !     I    have  a  place  where  we  can  hide." 

Suddenly  her  gaze  became  fixed  and  dream- 


2l6 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


like,  and  she  said  slowly:  "  In  all  time  of  our 
tribulation,  in  all  time  of  our  wealth,  in  the 
hour  of  death,  and  in  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! " 

**  Good  Lord,  deliver  us!"  repeated  Law- 
less, in  a  low  voice.  Without  looking  at  them, 
she  slowly  turned  away  and  passed  up  the  hill- 
side, her  eyes  scanning  the  valley  as  before. 

"  Good  Lord,  deliver  us  !  "  again  said  Law- 
less.    "  Where  did  she  get  it  ?" 

**  From  a  book  which  Fingall  left  behind." 

They  watched  her  till  she  rounded  a  cliff, 
and  was  gone  ;  then  they  shouldered  their  kits 
and  passed  up  the  river  on  the  trail  of  the  wapiti. 
One  month  later,  when  a  fine  white  surf  of  frost 
lay  on  the  ground,  and  the  sky  was  darkened 
often  by  the  flight  of  the  wild  geese  southward, 
they  came  upon  a  hut  perched  on  a  bluff,  at  the 
edge  of  a  clump  of  pines.  It  was  morning, 
and  White-faced  Mountain  shone  clear  and  high, 
without  a  touch  of  cloud  or  mist  from  its 
haunches   to    its   crown. 

They  knocked  at  the  hut  door,  and,  in  answer 
to  a  voice,  entered.  The  sunlight  streamed  in 
over  a  woman,  lying  upon  a  heap  of  dried 
flowers  in  a  corner.  A  man  was  kneeling  beside 
her.  They  came  near  and  saw  that  the  woman 
was  Cynthie. 


!■/ 


The  Finding  of  Fingall  217 

''Fingall!"  broke  out  Pierre,  and  caught 
the  kneeling  man  by  the  shoulder.  At  the  sound 
of  his  voice  the  woman's  eves  opened 

"Fingall!--()h,  Fingall  !  "  she  said,  and 
reached  up  a  hand. 

Fingall  stooi)ed  and  caught  her  to  his  breast- 
''Cynthie!   poor  girl!     Oh,   my  poor  Cyn- 
thie!"  he  said.  ^ 

In  his  eyes,  as  in  hers,  was  a  sane  light,  and 
hiF  voice,  as  hers,  said  indescribable  things. 

Her  head  sank  upon  his  shoulder,  her  eves 
closed;  she  slept.  Fingall  laid  her  down  with 
a  sob  in  his  throat  ;  then  he  sat  up  and  clutched 
Pierre's  hand. 

•'In  the  East,  where  the  doctors  cured  me,  I 
heard  all,"  he  said,  pointing  to  her,  ''and  I  came 
to  find  her.  I  was  just  in  time  ;  I  found  her 
yesterday." 

"  She  knew  you  ?  "  whispered  Pierre. 

"Ves,  but  this  fever  came  on."  He  turned 
and  looked  at  her.  and,  kneeling,  smoothed 
away  the  hair  from  the  quiet  face.  '*  Poor  girl ' " 
he  said  ;  "poor  girl  !" 

"  She  will  get  well  ?"  asked  Pierre. 

"  God  grant  it  !  "  Fingall  replied.  *'  She  is 
better — better  !" 

Lawless  and   Pierre  softly  turned    and    stole 


2l8 


An  Adventurer  of  the  North 


m 


V 


away,  leaving  the  man  alone  with  the  woman  he 

loved. 

The  two  stood  in  silence,  looking  upon  the 

river  beneath.     Presently  a  voice  crept  through 

the  stillness. 

"  Fingall !  Oh,  Fingall  !— Fingall !  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  a  woman  returning  from 

the  dead. 


I } 


PRINTED   BY   JOHN   WILSON   AND   SON   AT 

THE     UNIVERSITY    PRESS    IN    CAMBRIDGE 

DURING      JUNE       M    DCCC   XCVI.  FOR 

STONE   AND    KIMBALL 

NEW   YORK 


<r 


